By  ANNA  FULLER 


A  Literary  Courtship:  Under  the  Auspices  of 
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thousand.  12° |i'25 

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. 


Old  Ben 
Mebbe  they  don't  wear  bunnits  up  there,"  he  hazarded. 


Xater  pratt  portraits 

Sfcetcbefc  in  a  IRew  JEnalanfc  Suburb 


Hnna  fuller 

Author  of  "  Pratt  Portraits,"  "  A  Venetian  June,"  etc. 


f  HustrateD  bg  flBauD  aouses  3fan0el 


G.  P.  Putnam's   Sons 

New    York    and   London 
Ifcnfcfcecbocfcer  press 
1911 


COPYRIGHT,  1911 

BY 
ANNA  FULLER 


ttbe  Imfcfterbocfter  preee,  flew 


SO 

G.  H.  P. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I. — OLD  LADY  PRATT'S  SPECTACLES   .         i 

II.— THE  TOMBOY     ....       39 

III.— THE  DOWNFALL  OF  GEORGIANA  .       76 

IV. — WILLIAM'S  WILLIE     .         .         .112 

V.— A  BRILLIANT  MATCH  .         .     149 

VL— JANE 190 

VIL— PEGGY'S  FATHER        .         .         .226 

VIII. — THE    DEAN   OF   THE    BOARDING 

HOUSE  ....     267 

IX.— THE  DANDER  OF  SUSAN      .         .     304 

X. — SHIPS  IN  THE  AIR       .         .         .     341 

XL — THE  PASSING  OF  BEN          .         .     37& 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 

OLD  BEN     . 

Frontispiece 

ALECK 

.       32 

THE  TOMBOY 

•       54 

GEORGIANA 

88 

WILLIAM     . 

118 

ELSIE 

166 

JANE 

.     208 

PEGGY'S  FATHER 

.     246 

ARABELLA   . 

282 

SUSAN 

.     328 

HAZELDEAN 

368 

vii 


LATER 
PRATT    PORTRAITS. 

i. 

OLD  LADY  PRATT'S  SPECTACLES. 

A,ECK  PRATT  was  a  man  of  sterling 
worth,  and  he  was  at  no  pains  to 
conceal  the  fact.  On  the  contrary, 
his  every  word,  his  every  act,  was  redo- 
lent thereof.  Now  self-righteousness,  while 
not  as  reprehensible  a  vice  as  many  another, 
is  one  which  few  of  us  can  afford  to  indulge. 
Not  only  does  it  warp  the  judgment,  and 
impede  that  growth  in  grace  for  which  we 
are  taught  to  strive,  but  it  repels  one's 
fellow-creatures  to  a  degree  quite  out  of 
proportion  to  the  intrinsic  evil  of  it. 

Of  this  very  obvious  truism  no  one  ever 


2  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

had  a  better  understanding  than  Old  Lady 
Pratt,  that  wise  old  moralist  who  never 
moralized,  that  keen  philosopher  who  had 
never  read  a  word  of  philosophy,  wherein  she 
was  by  just  that  much  less  befogged  than 
the  average  smatterer  of  a  later  generation. 
She  was  the  first  to  detect  indications  of 
the  aforementioned  failing  in  her  grandson 
Aleck,  and  scarcely  was  that  admirable  little 
person  out  of  pinafores,  than  she  made  known 
her  discovery.  True  to  her  principles,  how- 
ever, Old  Lady  Pratt — already  at  fifty-odd  in 
the  enjoyment  of  that  honorable  title — re- 
served her  criticism  for  the  ears  of  those 
most  nearly  concerned. 

One  pleasant  summer  morning  her  daughter- 
in-law  Emmeline,  whom  she  greatly  liked, 
came  running  in,  hatless  and  enthusiastic, 
bearing  a  fresh-baked  loaf  of  sponge-cake. 
She  found  Mrs.  Pratt  and  Betsy  shelling 
peas  in  the  dining-room,  the  sun-light  glinting 
through  the  blinds  and  playing  pranks  with 
the  swiftly  moving  fingers. 

"There,  mother!"  Emmeline  cried,  after 
warmly  kissing  the  two  ladies,  who  had  long 
ago  adjusted  their  minds  to  the  highly 
spontaneous  caresses  of  Anson's  wife,  "I 
believe  we  Ve  succeeded  at  last !  It  's  full 


Old  Lady  Pratt9 s  Spectacles.  3 

of  eggs  as  it  will  hold,—  and  it  has  puffed  out, 
and  breathed  in,  and  dried  up,  and  moistened 
down,  and  done  every  single  thing  it  ought 
to  do,  and  so  I  just  thought  you  and  father 
might  enjoy  a  loaf, — and  Betsy  too,"  she 
added,  as  she  set  her  basket  down  on  the 
dining-table  and  drew  up  a  chair  close  to  her 
young  sister-in-law,  who  was  so  "hard-o'- 
hearin'  "  that  she  had  long  ago  given  up  the 
effort.  Emmeline  Pratt,  whose  household 
duties  were  for  the  moment  in  abeyance,  was 
capable  of  forgetting  nearly  everything  that 
she  ought  to  remember,  but  she  had  never 
yet  forgotten  to  be  kind. 

"Did  Alfred  come  in  yesterday?"  she 
asked,  pitching  her  voice  to  an  ear-splitting 
key. 

' '  Why,  yes ! ' '  Betsy  was  almost  as  proud  of 
having  understood  the  question  as  she  was 
of  the  implication  that  young  Williams's 
visits  particularly  concerned  her.  "He 
stayed  to  supper,  and  we  had  a  game  of  six- 
handed  euchre  afterward." 

"Who  beat?"  Emmeline  inquired,  with 
eager  interest. 

"Yes,  it  was, — very  pleasant  indeed!" — 
And  Betsy,  happily  unconscious,  relapsed  into 
a  contented  silence,  smiling  softly  to  herself. 


4  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

Old  Lady  Pratt  meanwhile  had  stepped 
over  to  the  table,  where  she  lingered,  "  heft- 
ing" the  cake  with  the  air  of  a  connoisseur. 
The  small,  wiry  figure  stood  firm-planted  as 
Justice  with  the  scales, — differing  Ihowever 
from  its  august  prototype  in  that  the  shrewd 
black  eyes  had  never  yet  been  blindfolded. 

"Yes,"  she  declared,  "you  Ve  succeeded 
this  time,  sure  enough.  'T  ain't  too  heavy, 
and  't  ain't  too  light,  'n'  it  crinkles  jest  right. 
I  guess  you  made  that  cake  yourself,  Em- 
meline;  you  never  could  have  taught  that  new 
girl  of  yours  to  do  it." 

"I  'm  afraid  that 's  the  trouble  with  me," 
Emmeline  lamented,  as  she  picked  up  a 
handful  of  peas  and  began  snapping  pods 
over  the  yellow  bowl  in  Betsy's  lap.  "I 
never  can  make  people  do  as  I  say, — any- 
body except  little  Aleck.  He  always  minds." 

"Minds  better  'n  Robbie,  don't  he?" 

"I  should  hope  so,"  was  the  laughing  ad- 
mission. "Robbie  doesn't  mind  much  of 
any, — except  when  he  's  sorry!" 

Old  Lady  Pratt  was  shelling  peas  with 
great  energy;  the  supply  was  getting  low. 

"I  suppose  Aleck  knows  what  a  good  boy 
he  is,"  she  remarked  casually. 

"Why,  how  can  he  help  knowing?     The 


Old  Lady  Pratt' s  Spectacles.  5 

child  has  n't  had  a  bad  mark  in  school,  not 
since  Christmas.  He  told  me  so  himself." 

" Seems  kind  o'  proud  of  it,  eh?" 

Emmeline  looked  up  quickly.  She  rarely 
fumbled  over  a  meaning  when  there  was  one. 

"Now,  mother,  what  are  you  driving  at?" 
she  asked,  desisting  from  her  labors,  as  she 
had  a  way  of  doing  when  her  thoughts  were 
taking  a  turn. 

"Well,  Emmeline,  if  you  want  the  truth  I 
may  as  well  speak  out.  We  all  know  that 
Aleck  is  a  good  boy,  but  he  's  gettin'  to  be  a 
little  prig." 

"Oh,  mother!    Not  really!" 

"Yes,  really.  You  ain't  so  much  to 
blame.  It 's  his  father  that 's  spoilin'  him. 
Anson  's  so  tickled  to  have  a  boy  that  keeps 
his  collar  straight  and  don't  slam  the  doors, 
that  he  can't  conceal  his  admiration.  Both 
those  boys  know  jest  as  well  as  I  do  that 
Aleck  is  their  father's  favorite,  and  Aleck 
knows  why,  if  Robbie  don't.  And  so  Aleck 
is  gettin'  to  feel  so  superior  that  I  would  give 
ninepence  to  box  his  ears, — only  he  's  such 
a  little  deacon  that  he  never  gives  me  a 
chance!" 

"And  poor  little  Robbie  always  seems  to 
be  offering  up  his  ears  for  boxing!"  Em- 


6  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

meline  sighed.  "Why,  only  yesterday, 
when  Mr.  Fields  was  taking  tea  with  us, 
Robbie — the  little  sinner  never  listens  to  him 
in  the  pulpit — got  so  interested  in  the  talk 
that  he  flooded  his  plate  with  maple  syrup, 
and  half  the  tablecloth  into  the  bargain,  be- 
fore anybody  saw  what  he  was  doing!  I 
have  n't  seen  Anson  so  angry,  I  don't  know 
when!" 

"Well,  I  declare  for  't!  That  was  a  bad 
mess!"  the  grandmother  admitted,  frankly 
aghast  at  thought  of  the  trickling  disaster. 
"And  yet, — I  can't  think  of  anything  that 
would  do  Aleck  more  good  than  to  come  to 
grief  in  jest  that  way!  Mind  you,  I  'm  not 
say  in'  that  the  child  deserves  a  spankin'. 
He  's  as  good  a  little  boy  as  ever  lived.  But 
if  he  could  deserve  one,  jest  once,  I  do  be- 
lieve it  would  be  his  salvation." 

But,  alas,  Aleck  never  did !  Unspanked,  un- 
chidden  he  went  his  decorous  way.  He  was 
never  late  to  school,  he  never  fell  asleep  in 
church;  his  sums  always  came  out  right,  and 
he  rarely  tore  his  clothes,  unless  he  was  be- 
trayed into  a  fight.  For  Aleck  was  a  good 
fighter  and  got  into  more  scrimmages  than  so 
proper  a  little  boy  should  have  done.  Per- 
haps he  was  irritating;  I  am  inclined  to  think 


Old  Lady  Pratfs  Spectacles.  7 

he  was.  But  he  was  a  fair  fighter,  and  it 
would  be  difficult  to  explain  why  lookers-on 
would  have  liked  to  see  him  whipped. 

Robbie,  for  his  part,  was  rarely  among  the 
lookers-on  at  such  bloody  encounters.  He 
had  an  inherent  aversion  to  black  eyes,  and 
would  have  no  traffic  in  them.  In  fact, 
Robbie  was  singularly  devoid  of  the  evil 
passions  which  find  their  account  in  fisticuffs. 
But  there  were  few  other  items  in  the  childish 
decalogue  that  were  not  recorded  against 
him.  He  could  be  frank  to  impudence,  yet 
he  was  an  adroit  fibber.  He  had  a  dandified 
taste  in  shoes  and  collars,  yet  his  pockets  had 
to  be  sewed  up  to  keep  his  hands  out  of 
them.  He  never  mastered  the  multiplication 
table,  but  "Casabianca"  and  "A  Soldier  of 
the  Legion"  slipped  off  his  tongue  as  easily 
as  the  Lord's  Prayer,  which  he  had  repeated 
every  day  of  his  life  since  long  before  it 
dawned  upon  him  that  such  words  as  "hal- 
lowed'1 or  "trespass"  had  any  meaning 
whatever.  And  so  Robbie  grew  up  an  in- 
gratiating ne'er-do-weel  whom  nobody  loved 
the  less  for  that,  while  Aleck,  methodical, 
long-headed,  irreproachable,  did  his  duty  in 
every  relation  of  life,  and  nobody  loved  him 
the  better  for  it. 


8  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

In  due  course  Aleck  made  a  well-con- 
sidered, advantageous  marriage  with  a 
warm-hearted  girl,  who,  taking  his  hand- 
some face  for  a  cue,  idealized  him  and  pre- 
pared to  spoil  him  in  wifely  fashion.  But 
Aleck  was  not  to  be  spoiled;  he  was  too  well- 
balanced  for  that.  Nor  did  he  prove  in  the 
long  run  altogether  stimulating  as  an  ideal. 
There  was  never  any  lapse  of  morals  on  his 
part,  never  any  parleyings  with  the  tempter. 
As  husband  and  father  he  was  above  re- 
proach, and  Louisa  never  lost  sight  of  his 
many  virtues.  But  after  some  ten  or  fifteen 
years'  experience  of  them,  she  used  some- 
times to  catch  herself  wishing  that  he  would 
once,  just  once,  have  the  grace  to  be  in  the 
wrong! 

Robert,  on  the  other  hand,  who  could  so 
abundantly  have  gratified  a  wife  in  this  par- 
ticular, had,  for  reasons  best  known  to  him- 
self, remained  single,  and  it  was  with  the 
detached  air  of  a  bachelor  that  he  con- 
templated his  brother's  achievements  in  the 
domestic  field,  wondering  idly  at  their  un- 
flagging excellence. 

In  the  meantime  Old  Lady  Pratt,  balked 
in  a  pet  ambition,  found  herself  obliged  to 
quit  the  scene  of  her  long  and  beneficent 


Old  Lady  Pratt' s  Spectacles.  9 

earthly  activity  without  having  once  seen 
her  way  clear  to  boxing  Aleck's  ears.  Fur- 
thermore, such  was  the  sheer  weight  of  his 
judgment  and  integrity,  that  she  felt  con- 
strained to  appoint  him  executor  under  her 
will, — indemnifying  herself,  however,  by 
naming  his  mercurial  elder  brother  co-execu- 
tor, with  equal  powers.  One  may  imagine 
the  sly  satisfaction  with  which  the  old  lady 
inserted  this  thorn  into  her  impeccable 
grandson's  flesh. 

Now  Aleck,  who  credited  himself  with  all 
the  conventional  sentiments,  was  under  the 
impression  that  he  and  his  brother  loved 
each  other, — an  illusion,  be  it  observed, 
which  the  latter  was  far  from  sharing.  Yet 
it  is  but  fair  to  admit  that  no  brotherly  love, 
real  or  imagined,  could  have  made  Robert — 
undisciplined  free-lance  that  he  was — toler- 
able as  running-mate  in  any  serious  business. 

"I  've  half  a  mind  to  refuse  the  job,"  Aleck 
declared,  in  a  burst  of  conjugal  confidence. 
"It 's  a  paltry  little  property,  anyway!" 

Louisa's  very  needle  paused  in  mid-air. 
Such  a  word  applied  to  any  matter  that  con- 
cerned Old  Lady  Pratt  bordered  on  sacrilege. 

"Why,  Aleck!"  she  protested,  "what 
would  grandmother  say?" 


IO  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

"  I  don't  care  what  grandmother  would  say. 
It 's  what  she  has  done  that  we  Ve  got  to  con- 
sider. I  really  thought  she  had  more  sense! " 
And  Aleck  stalked  out  of  the  room,  conscious 
of  that  mild  exhilaration  which  the  righteous 
are  prone  to  derive  from  a  strictly  innocuous 
profanity. 

As  he  closed  the  sitting-room  door,  with 
due  regard  to  the  latch,  Louisa  gave  a 
patient  little  sigh.  It  would  have  done  him 
so  much  good  to  slam  that  door!  Her  very 
ears  craved  the  sound  of  it. 

As  to  Robert,  if  there  had  been  nothing 
actually  discreditable  in  his  business  career, 
beginning  in  his  father's  warehouse,  of 
which  he  had  soon  wearied,  and  continuing 
at  irregular  intervals  in  one  or  another 
signally  profitless  commercial  venture  of  his 
own,  there  had  not  been  lacking  evidence  of 
an  instability  calculated  to  make  the  judi- 
cious grieve.  His  taste  for  horses,  too,  for 
cards,  for  harmless  conviviality,  all  counted 
against  him;  while  some  there  were  among 
his  sincere  well-wishers  who  believed  him 
to  be  seriously  handicapped  by  his  na- 
tive predilection  for  music,  play-acting, 
and  the  like,  which,  as  every  one  knows, 
are  at  direct  variance  with  such  higher  aims 


Old  Lady  Pratt' s  Spectacles.  1 1 

as  money-making  and  personal  advance- 
ment. 

Upon  the  still  recent  death  of  his  mother, 
who  had  survived  her  husband  but  a  few 
months,  Robert,  having  thereby  fallen  heir 
to  a  modest  patrimony,  promptly  renounced 
the  pursuit  of  wealth  in  favor  of  his  latest 
hobby,  the  collection  and  earnest  study  of  a 
great  variety  of  musical  instruments.  That 
a  man  nearing  forty  should  take  to  such 
foolishness  was  a  deplorable  circumstance, 
yet  one  which  might  have  its  uses.  For  it 
was  an  open  secret  that  Robert  had  at  one 
period  allowed  himself  to  be  drawn  into  un- 
holy and  disastrous  dealings  on  the  stock 
market,  and  the  hope  was  that  this  new 
vagary  of  his,  developing  at  the  critical 
moment  of  his  finding  himself  in  funds, 
might  serve  at  least  to  keep  him  clear  of 
that  pitfall.  Better  waste  his  breath  on 
wood-winds  than  his  substance  in  gambling; 
if  he  needs  must  choose  between  two  evils, 
better  the  fiddle  than  the  ticker! 

Great  was  Aleck's  relief,  then,  when  it 
transpired  that  Robert,  far  from  pressing 
his  authority  as  executor,  seemed  rather 
bored  by  the  honor  thrust  upon  him,  and 
quite  ready  to  leave  matters  in  more  com- 


12  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

petent  hands.  In  fact,  he  let  fall  something 
to  that  effect  as  the  two  brothers  walked  to- 
gether to  Old  Lady  Pratt's  house  in  Green 
Street  the  morning  after  the  reading  of  the 
will, — a  function  which  had  been  postponed 
several  days,  owing  to  the  pathetic  passing 
of  Aunt  Betsy  on  the  very  evening  following 
her  mother's  funeral.  That  unlooked-for 
event,  the  only  striking  incident  of  a  faithful 
soul's  career,  had  pulled  sharply  at  the 
family  heart-strings;  but  now  that  the  poor 
lady  had  been  laid  to  rest,  close  at  her 
mother's  feet  as  beseemed  a  devoted  slave, 
she  bade  fair  to  be  soon  forgotten.  Even 
Robert,  who  was  rarely  lacking  in  the  finer 
sensibilities,  was  already  finding  himself 
more  open  to  reminders  of  the  imperative 
little  grandmother  than  of  her  meek  familiar. 
To-day,  as  the  two  executors  sat  before 
the  safe  in  the  dining-room  pantry,  it  was 
with  a  curious  compunction  that  Robert 
watched  his  brother  unconcernedly  rifling 
the  miniature  stronghold  which  none  till 
now  had  ever  violated.  How  often  had  he 
seen  Old  Lady  Pratt  open  the  ponderous 
little  door  to  "get  out"  the  silver  for  some 
festive  occasion, — jealously  securing  it  again 
like  the  good  housewife  she  was.  Now  and 


Old  Lady  Pratt' s  Spectacles.  13 

then,  when  minded  to  be  indulgent,  she 
would  draw  forth  some  single  object  from 
one  or  another  of  the  partitions,  each  of  which 
the  children  believed  to  be  the  abode  of 
priceless  treasure;  and  trifling  as  the  exhibit 
was, — her  grandmother's  wedding-ring  per- 
chance, or  her  husband's  masonic  badge, — 
it  served  but  to  whet  the  childish  curiosity. 
There  was  one  drawer,  having  a  key  of  its 
own,  which  the  most  favored  child  had  never 
seen  opened,  and  in  this,  as  now  appeared, 
were  housed  the  handful  of  securities  which 
had  furnished  means  of  sustenance  to  the 
thrifty  old  lady  and  her  dependents.  As  it 
yielded  up  its  contents,  Robert  could  not 
forbear  an  only  half -humorous  protest. 

"I  say,  Aleck,"  he  exclaimed,  "can't  you 
almost  hear  grandma  tell  us  not  to  meddle?" 

"What  puzzles  me,"  Aleck  remarked, 
with  the  fine  disregard  of  other  people's 
mental  processes  which  had  always  char- 
acterized him,  "is  how  those  two  women 
managed  to  make  such  a  good  appearance  on 
a  pittance  like  this." 

"Well,  they  didn't  live  exactly  like  fight- 
ing-cocks, you  must  admit,"  Robert  threw 
in,  with  a  glance  about  the  little  interior  in 
its  Spartan  simplicity. 


14  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

"Here  are  six  governments,"  Aleck  went 
plodding  on,  wholly  engrossed  in  his  in- 
ventory, "and  that  Smithson  mortgage. 
Twenty-five  shares  in  the  Dunbridge  horse- 
railroad,  —  a  gas  -  certificate,  and  —  I  'm 
blessed  if  they  did  n't  do  the  old  lady  for  a 
Realty  Company  bond, — and  she  never  let 
on!" 

"What's  that?"  Robert  inquired,  with 
languid  interest. 

"Oh,  a  western  mortgage  swindle  the 
Dunbridge  National  blundered  into.  Waste 
paper!  Hasn't  honored  a  coupon  in  ten 
years!" 

At  the  marked  animus  with  which  the 
offending  document  was  tossed  upon  the 
table,  Robert  became  gleefully  alert. 

"Didn't  get  scorched  yourself?"  he  in- 
quired, with  a  tender  solicitude  expressly 
designed  to  enrage  the  victim. 

"Everybody  got  scorched." 

"/  didn't."  Robert's  modest  disavowal 
was  worth  going  far  to  hear. 

"It  wasn't  put  on  the  market  as  a  gam- 
ble!1' Aleck  flung  back. 

The  co-executor  raised  his  eyebrows  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  had  once  taken 
lessons  of  a  French  violinist,  from  whom  he 


Old  Lady  Pratfs  Spectacles.  15 

had  learned  certain  foreign  tricks  not  con- 
tracted for,  and  which  Aleck  especially 
abominated. 

"Shall  we  mark  it  'insecurity*  and  pigeon- 
hole it?"  he  inquired,  tucking  the  bond  into 
one  of  the  open  partitions,  cheek  by  jowl 
with  a  bundle  of  family  letters. 

Aleck,  with  an  impatient  grunt  that 
might  pass  for  acquiescence,  proceeded  to 
gather  up  the  other  papers  and  restore  them 
to  the  locked  drawer.  Having  made  every- 
thing shipshape,  and  folded  his  inventory 
to  fit  his  wallet,  he  stood  a  moment  irresolute, 
fingering  the  bunch  of  keys  which  dangled 
from  a  single  ring. 

"I  suppose  you  '11  have  to  have  the  dupli- 
cate keys,"  he  observed  grudgingly. 

"  It  would  seem  a  painful  necessity, — unless 
you  prefer  entrusting  them  to  Eliza!" 

Whereupon  Aleck,  feeling  in  his  heart  that 
Eliza,  the  "hired  girl,"  who  had  served  Old 
Lady  Pratt  from  time  immemorial,  would  be 
quite  as  available  a  depositary  as  Robert, 
detached  one  set  of  keys  and  reluctantly 
handed  them  over  to  his  brother.  As  he 
stepped  aboard  the  horse-car  a  few  minutes 
later,  on  the  way  to  his  counting-house  in  the 
city,  the  thought  of  that  Realty  Company 


16  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

bond  crossed  his  mind,  and  he  took  himself 
to  task  for  suffering  his  irresponsible  partner 
to  treat  it  so  cavalierly.  Not  that  the  bond 
itself  was  worth  its  ink  and  paper;  but,  after 
all,  business  was  business,  and  it  would 
never  do  to  encourage  Robert'  in  loose 
views. 

That  his  own  judgment  had  been  at  fault 
in  this  particular  instance  was  brought  home 
to  him  in  a  manner  not  altogether  painful, 
when,  only  a  few  weeks  later,  there  appeared 
in  his  mail  a  notification  from  the  Realty 
people  to  the  effect  that  a  small  payment 
would  be  made  on  the  bonds  of  the  company 
upon  their  presentation  at  a  given  office  in 
State  Street. 

Pending  its  final  distribution,  the  little 
property  had  been  left  in  its  accustomed 
quarters,  and  thither  Aleck  repaired  in  quest 
of  the  despised  bond.  To  his  extreme  an- 
noyance, it  was  not  to  be  found;  and  after 
diligently  searching  every  nook  and  corner 
of  the  safe,  he  set  out  for  his  brother's  lodg- 
ings in  no  conciliatory  mood.  The  cheerful 
warble  of  a  flute  which  greeted  him  as  he 
mounted  the  stairs  did  not  tend  to  allay  his 
irritation,  and  with  only  the  pretence  of  a 
knock  he  entered  what  Robert  was  pleased 


Old  Lady  Pratt" s  Spectacles.  17 

to  call  his  "workshop/*  and  closed  the  door 
behind  him. 

The  flute  warbled  blithely  on,  and  Aleck 
stood  a  moment  feeding  his  wrath  on  the 
sight  of  those  inflated  cheeks  and  grotesquely 
arched  eyebrows. 

" Robert!"  he  called  sharply,  when  no 
longer  able  to  contain  his  disapproval. 

The  performer  merely  changed  the  angle 
of  his  right  eyebrow  in  token  of  intelligence, 
but  not  until  he  had  finished  the  little 
roulade  did  he  come  to  speech.  Then,  re- 
moving the  instrument  from  his  lips,  and 
gravely  drying  the  mouthpiece  upon  a  silk 
handkerchief,  "A  pity  you  don't  like  music," 
he  observed  pleasantly.  "It 's  a  delightful 


resource." 


"I  have  no  lack  of  resources,"  was  Aleck's 
curt  rejoinder,  as  he  seated  himself  face  to 
face  with  the  offender,  whose  countenance 
was  gradually  resuming  its  normal  hue.  "  In 
fact,  I  'm  rather  too  much  occupied  to  be 
called  upon  to  keep  my  co-executor  in  order." 

"Your  co-executor?  Why,  that 's  me! 
Sounds  quite  important!  Well,  what 's 
wrong  with  the  co-executor?"  And  by  way 
of  concession  to  the  dignity  of  the  office, 
Robert  laid  his  flute  on  the  table. 


1 8  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

"I  thought  it  was  understood  that  the 
handling  of  grandmother's  estate  was  to  be 
left  to  me." 

It  was  Aleck's  most  aggressive  tone,  and 
Robert  was  prompt  to  accept  the  challenge. 

"Well,  supposing  it  was,"  he  mocked. 
"That 's  nothing  to  get  mad  about!" 

"Look  here,  Robert,  we're  not  in  the 
grammar  school!" 

"Glad  to  hear  it.  Thought  for  a  moment 
that  we  were!  And  now,  what  can  I  do  for 
you?" 

"You  can  tell  me  what  you  have  done  with 
that  Realty  Company  bond." 

"Done  with  it?  I  understood  that  it  was 
done  with  us." 

"What  have  you  done  with  the  bond?" 

"I  have  n't  done  anything  with  it."  And 
here  Robert,  as  a  delicate  hint  that  he  con- 
sidered the  subject  exhausted,  fell  to  finger- 
ing the  keys  of  the  recumbent  flute. 

"When  did  you  take  it  out  of  the  safe?" 
Aleck  persisted. 
.    "Did  n't  take  it  out  of  the  safe." 

"That's  nonsense,  Robert.  The  bond's 
gone,  and  you  're  the  only  person  that  has 
access  to  the  papers." 

1 '  Really  ?     How  about  yourself?  " 


Old  Lady  Pratt" s  Spectacles.  19 

"I'm  a  business  man,  and  entirely  ac- 
countable." 

"Well,  then;  I  'm  not  a  business  man,  and 
I  never  assume  any  accountability  that  I 
can  keep  clear  of."  And  from  this  point  on, 
the  flute  was  left  to  its  own  devices. 

"Pity  you  could  n't  have  kept  clear  of 
this,  then!" 

"Come,  Aleck!  Better  go  easy.  You  're 
running  this  thing, — that 's  agreed  between 
us, — and  you  '11  do  as  you  please  with  the 
plunder.  But  you  '11  be  good  enough  to  let 
my  character  alone." 

"Your  character?" 

"Yes,  my  character.  It 's  a  poor  thing, 
but  mine  own, — that 's  Shakespeare,  by  the 
way, — you  ought  to  feel  complimented, — 
but  such  as  it  is,  I  really  must  ask  you  to 
keep  your  hands  off  it." 

Perhaps  the  most  exasperating  thing  about 
Robert  was  his  entire  absence  of  heat, — 
quite  as  if  he  did  n't  at  bottom  care  enough 
about  Aleck's  aspersions  to  resent  them 
seriously. 

"I  Ve  not  attacked  your  character," 
Aleck  protested,  yet  in  the  perfunctory  tone 
of  one  merely  desiring  to  keep  within  the 
law. 


2O  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

"Indeed?  And  what  is  it  that  you  are 
attacking?  I  state  that  I  have  n't  touched 
your  old  bond,  and  you " 

"Can  you  state  that  you  have  n't  opened 
the  safe  in  my  absence?" 

"Assuredly  not;  for  I  did  open  it  a  day  or 
two  ago." 

"Well,  there  we  have  it!" 

"  I  went  there  to  get  a  bunch  of  letters  that 
mother  wrote  grandmother  when  I  was  a 
little  shaver  and  had  the  scarlet  fever. 
Grandma  showed  them  to  me  after  mother 
died,  and  I  knew  she  had  always  kept  them  in 
the  safe." 

"Did  they  happen  to  be  in  the  same 
pigeon-hole  where  you  put  the  bond?" 

"Might  have  been,  for  all  I  know." 

"Hm!  That  explains  it.  You  took  the 
bond  too  by  mistake." 

"Nothing  of  the  kind.  I  stopped  and 
read  the  letters  then  and  there,  just  where  I 
was  sitting  when  grandma  showed  them  to 
me.  There  was  no  bond  among  them." 

"Will  you  oblige  me  by  examining  those 
letters  now?" 

"No,  I  won't!"— And  at  last  Robert  did 
change  countenance. 

"May  Task  why?" 


Old  Lady  Pratt s  Spectacles.  21 

"  Because  I  have  n't  got  them." 

"Did  you  destroy  them?" 

"That 's  my  business." 

"Ah!  Then  you  didn't."  Aleck  eyed 
his  brother  narrowly,  and  a  conviction  of  the 
truth  seized  him.  "So — you  lost  them  on 
the  way  home." 

"Well,  what  if  I  did?  I  Ve  done  what 
I  could  about  it,  for  I  valued  those  letters 
more  than  forty  of  your  tuppenny  bonds!" 

"And  what  have  you  done  about  it?" 
Aleck  probed. 

"Advertised." 

"And  got  no  answer.  Naturally!  The 
man  that 's  got  that  bond  is  n't  going  to 
show  up." 

"I  tell  you  there  was  no  bond  there, 
Aleck.  I  know  what  I  'm  talking  about. 
But  those  letters !  Why,  man,  mother  was  a 
genius !  I  had  forgotten  how  good  they  were. 
You  see  she  was  in  quarantine  with  me, — I 
can  see  her  now,  moving  about  the  room,  her 
pretty " 

Aleck  was  on  his  feet. 

"We  're  not  concerned  about  family  letters 
just  now,"  he  broke  in.  "The  bond  is  lost, 
and  as  you  won't  own  to  having  lost  it,  I 
must  make  it  good  myself." 


22  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

Robert's  little  burst  of  feeling  had  gone 
out  like  a  flame. 

"An  inexpensive  matter,"  he  remarked 
dryly,  "since  it 's  known  to  be  worthless." 

"You  are  mistaken,"  Aleck  retorted,  with 
injured  dignity.  "There  is  a  payment  to  be 
made  to-day." 

"Indeed?  How  large  a  payment? — if  the 
co-executor  may  be  so  indiscreet  as  to  in- 
quire." 

"Fifty  dollars." 

"Hope  it  won't  ruin  you,  though  if  you 
think  it  will " 

"It's  not  this  payment,"  Aleck  made 
haste  to  declare.  "It  's  the  bond  itself. 
That  will  naturally  rise  in  value,  and  I 
shall  replace  it  with  one  of  my  own." 

"Very  right,  I  am  sure,"  Robert  chimed 
in,  with  a  sententiousness  copied  after 
Aleck's  own.  "I  hope  it  will  make  you 
more  careful  in  future.  Otherwise  I  might, 
as  senior  executor,  find  myself  constrained 
to  suggest  your  handing  the  keys  over  to 
Eliza." 

And  before  Aleck  was  well  out  of  hearing, 
the  dulcet  whistle  of  the  flute  was  again 
audible  in  the  corridors  of  the  lodging-house. 

As  Louisa  listened  that  evening  to  the  tale 


Old  Lady  Pratt' s  Spectacles.  2$ 

of  Robert's  dereliction,  she  was  too  dutiful  a 
wife  not  to  do  justice  to  her  husband's 
grievance.  The  attitude  of  the  culprit  was 
in  itself  trying  enough,  while  the  loss  of  a 
thousand-dollar  bond,  whatever  its  im- 
mediate status,  was  not  to  be  regarded 
lightly.  Old  Lady  Pratt  had  certainly  blun- 
dered. Incredible  as  it  must  seem,  even  she, 
the  ultimate  authority,  had  suffered  a  lapse 
of  judgment.  Only  Aleck  had  been  right, — 
fatally,  indisputably  right, — as  usual ! 

To  this  conclusion  all  were  fain  to  subscribe 
when,  in  course  of  time,  the  family  learned 
of  the  way  in  which  Robert  had  again  dem- 
onstrated his  business  incompetency.  They 
took  the  matter  rather  seriously,  these  Pratt 
relatives.  It  was  really  mortifying  that  one 
of  their  number  should  be  so  slack  as  to  let 
a  valuable  paper  slip  through  his  fingers. 
And  perhaps  the  worst  feature  of  the  case 
was  the  indifference  with  which  the  delin- 
quent himself  persisted  in  regarding  the 
affair.  He  would  not  even  take  the  trouble 
to  defend  himself,  but,  coolly  characterizing 
the  matter  as  a  bee  in  Aleck's  bonnet,  he 
went  about  his  business,  if  business  it  could 
be  called,  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  There 
was  something  so  vexatious  about  this,  con- 


24  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

sidering  too  how  ready  every  one  would  have 
been  to  pity  and  condone,  that  for  once  the 
family  sympathy  veered  to  Aleck's  side. 

The  feeling  against  Robert  reached  its 
height  when,  after  a  few  days,  it  came  out 
that  his  precious  letters  had  been  restored 
to  him  and  that  he  had  let  the  finder  depart 
without  so  much  as  asking  his  address, — 
let  alone  making  any  inquiry  whatever  for 
the  missing  bond.  Why  should  he  insult 
the  man  gratuitously,  he  would  like  to 
know?  A  pretty  return  that  would  be  for  a 
thumping  great  favor! 

Now,  such  indifference  savored  of  moral 
turpitude,  or  so  his  cousin  Susan  Leggett 
declared,  and  Susan  ought  to  know,  for  she 
had  married  a  professor  of  Christian  Ethics. 
This  sentiment  about  his  mother  was  all 
very  well.  Aunt  Emmeline  had  written  a 
very  good  letter  no  doubt,  even  if  her  spell- 
ing had  been  a  bit,  well — old-fashioned,  to 
say  the  least.  But— "Really,  Robert,"  the 
good  lady  urged,  "you  might  have  put  the 
question,  if  only  out  of  consideration  for 
the  family  feeling.'* 

"True,  Susan!  And  while  I  was  about 
it  I  might  have  inquired  whether  there  did  n't 
happen  to  be  a  diamond  tiara  under  the 


Old  Lady  Pratt' s  Spectacles.  25 

strap.  So  easy  to  overlook  a  little  thing  like 
that!"  With  which  arrant  flippancy  Robert 
dismissed  the  subject  for  the  hundredth 
time. 

Meanwhile,  a  very  few  weeks  had  sufficed 
for  the  settling  of  the  estate,  and  to-day 
Aleck  sat  at  his  library  desk,  agreeably  con- 
scious of  a  task  well  done.  At  five  o'clock 
that  afternoon  he  was  to  preside  at  a  meeting 
of  the  heirs,  here  in  his  own  library,  to  render 
an  account  of  his  prompt  and  able  steward- 
ship, and  to  apportion  to  each  his  just  share 
in  the  little  property.  Before  him  was  his 
check-book  containing  checks  drawn  to  the 
order  of  the  several  beneficiaries;  here  were 
the  receipts  awaiting  their  respective  signa- 
tures; and  there,  in  the  yellow  envelope 
where  once  had  housed  the  goodly  little  com- 
pany of  "  governments, "  still  lingered  that 
Realty  Company  bond  which  he  had  sac- 
rificed on  the  altar  of  brotherly — shall  we 
say  exasperation? — and  for  which  no  market 
had  offered.  The  envelope  was  of  the  ac- 
cordion-shaped variety,  designed  to  open 
out  for  the  accommodation  of  a  number  of 
papers,  and  having  once  been  taxed  nearly 
to  its  capacity,  it  now  presented  a  slipshod, 
overblown  appearance  which  offended 


26  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

Aleck's  sense  of  fitness.  He  picked  it  up 
and  inserted  his  fingers,  with  a  view  to  re- 
moving the  bond,  which,  however,  seemed 
disinclined  to  come  loose.  Impatient  of 
such  contumacy  in  that  particular  paper,  he 
gave  the  thing  a  shake,  when  lo,  with  a 
hitch  and  a  flop,  quite  in  character,  there 
dropped  on  the  desk, — his  own  broad  desk, 
dedicated  for  years  to  conscientious  and 
punctilious  labor, — not  his  sacrificial  offer- 
ing alone,  but  its  shameless  double,  none 
other  than  Old  Lady  Pratt's  own  bond! 

For  one  bewildered  moment  Aleck  be- 
lieved that  he  was  dreaming.  He  clutched 
the  arms  of  his  chair  in  the  vain  hope  that 
they  might  crumble  in  his  grasp.  He  lifted 
his  head  and  glanced  across  the  room,  lest 
perchance  the  portrait  of  his  father, — steady, 
incorruptible  man  of  affairs  whose  mantle  had 
descended  upon  him, — lest  perchance  the 
portrait  might  have  melted  away,  as  even 
more  substantial  things  have  a  way  of  doing 
in  dreamland.  But  alas,  everything  was 
in  its  accustomed  place.  The  very  canary- 
bird  across  the  hall  was  singing  at  the  top 
of  its  voice;  he  could  hear  his  tomboy 
daughter  Sophie  whistling  as  she  came  in 
from  school,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life 


Old  Lady  Pratfs  Spectacles.  27 

he  felt  no  impulse  to  administer  a  well- 
merited  reproof.  Yes,  it  was  clearly  he, 
Aleck  Pratt,  who  had  lost  his  bearings, — 
it  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  whole  fabric  of  his 
life  were  suffering  disintegration. 

Then,  in  a  lurid  flash  of  memory,  he  re- 
called the  very  act  of  placing  that  miserable 
paper  there  with  his  own  hands.  He  re- 
membered returning  that  same  afternoon  to 
verify  his  inventory,  careful  man  that  he 
was, — and  that  then  and  there  he  had  half 
mechanically  rescued  the  "insecurity,"  and 
tucked  it  in  with  the  other  bonds.  What 
imp  of  darkness  had  impelled  him  to  put  it 
into  just  that  envelope,  the  only  one  having 
inner  folds  to  form  a  trap  for  its  detention? 
And  why,  oh  why,  since  it  had  remained  in 
hiding  through  every  previous  examination, 
must  it  come  to  light  now,  when  the  mischief 
was  done  past  remedy? 

Past  remedy?  Was  it  then  past  remedy? 
And  as  the  excellent  man  sat  there  in  deadly 
consternation,  the  remedy  he  pondered  was 
not  of  the  wrong  done  Robert.  It  was 
his  own  personal  straits  that  held  possession 
of  his  mind,  his  own  hideous  discomfiture. 
Must  he  then  face  exposure,  he  asked  him- 
self, his  heart  hardening  within  him, — must 


28  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

he  produce  the  bond?  Had  he  not  made 
good  its  loss?  Had  he  not  more  than  ful- 
filled every  obligation  toward  the  heirs  in 
that  as  in  every  other  particular  ?  Why 
take  any  step  tending  to  lessen  their  faith  in 
him?  Since  he  had  made  good  that  trifling 
matter  (how  much  more  trifling  it  seemed 
to-day  than  ever  before!),  why  rake  it  up 
again,  at  the  expense  of  his  reputation  as  a 
trustworthy  business  man? 

And  how  about  Robert's  reputation?  The 
thought  gave  him  pause  for  a  moment  only. 
Robert's  business  reputation!  As  if  he  had 
ever  had  any  to  lose!  It  was  not  as  if 
Robert's  probity  had  been  in  doubt.  No 
one  had  ever  questioned  that.  But  neither 
had  any  one  ever  taken  Robert's  irregularities 
seriously,  least  of  all  Robert  himself!  In 
this  very  matter  of  the  bond, — what  had 
Robert  cared?  The  man  was  too  indiffer- 
ent to  his  own  reputation  to  take  the  most 
obvious  measures  for  clearing  it.  Of  course, 
if  Robert  had  cared, — if  he  had  been  dis- 
tressed, mortified,  even  decently  regretful! 
But  he  did  n't  care !  And  whatever  he  had 
lost  in  family  esteem,  it  was  a  thing  he  had 
not  valued,  while  Aleck ! — why,  a  doubt  cast 
upon  his,  yes,  infallibility  (he  boldly  used  the 


Old  Lady  Pratt' s  Spectacles.  29 

word  himself),  a  doubt  cast  upon  that  would 
be  a  family  misfortune. 

Sitting  there,  motionless,  still  gripping  the 
arms  of  his  chair,  head  down-bent,  eyes  un- 
seeing, thinking,  thinking,  thinking,  Aleck 
felt  himself  becoming  with  every  moment 
more  strongly  intrenched  in  his  position. 
The  family  could  not  afford  to  lose  con- 
fidence in  him.  They  had  been  too  long 
accustomed  to  turn  to  him  for  counsel  in 
their  business  dealings.  How  faithfully  he 
had  served  them,  as  executor,  as  trustee,  as 
general  adviser!  Had  he  ever  failed  them? 
Never  once.  Yet  did  not  the  very  stanch- 
ness  of  their  faith  in  him  render  it  vulner- 
able? Too  strong  to  bend,  might  it  not 
break  under  the  shock  of  an  unprecedented 
blow?  It  was  surely  not  for  him  to  deal 
that  blow,  not  for  him  to  imperil  his  own 
usefulness.  A  slight  oversight  must  not  be 
magnified  into  a  damning  misdeed.  And 
with  this  forcible  conclusion  our  hard- 
pressed  sophist  rose  to  his  feet  and  con- 
tinued his  preparations  for  the  impending 
formalities. 

And  when  the  family  met  in  that  very 
room  a  few  hours  later,  there  was  naught  in 
Aleck's  face  to  betray  the  crisis  through 


30  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

which  he  had  passed.  He  sat,  erect,  au- 
thoritative, in  his  accustomed  chair,  giving 
his  mind  to  the  matter  in  hand,  as  un- 
troubled by  doubts  of  his  own  position  as  by 
misgivings  touching  the  reality  of  the  black- 
walnut  furniture  which  he  had  regarded  with 
such  suspicion  a  few  hours  earlier. 
r  Robert  had  declined  the  post  of  honor  be- 
side his  co-executor,  with  the  brief  disclaimer: 
"Oh,  no,  Aleck;  this  is  your  funeral!"  And 
so  sure  of  himself  was  Aleck  that  he  could 
contemplate  without  a  qualm  the  grewsome 
truth  that  might  have  lurked  in  Robert's 
words  had  not  common-sense  taken  com- 
mand of  the  situation. 

The  ceremony  of  distribution  was  an  affair 
of  but  a  few  minutes,  for,  aside  from  the 
checks  in  Aleck's  book,  there  remained  only 
the  personal  effects  to  be  considered.  These, 
under  his  practised  and  conscientious  ap- 
praisal, had  been  collected  in  numbered 
parcels,  to  be  assigned  by  the  drawing  of 
lots.  Contrary  to  a  well-worn  tradition 
that  has  furnished  grist  to  many  a  humorist's 
mill,  the  little  rite  was  in  this  instance  per- 
formed with  a  reverential  quiet,  eloquent  of 
feeling.  As  one  and  another  took  possession 
of  his  small  allotment,  not  all  eyes  were  dry, 


Old  Lady  Pratt' s  Spectacles,  31 

nor  was  every  voice  quite  steady,  though  we 
may  be  sure  that  no  pains  were  spared  to 
conceal  such  weakness. 

While  the  others  were  comparing  notes, 
or  chatting  in  subdued  tones,  Robert  sat, 
somewhat  apart  from  the  rest,  studying  a 
set  of  pink-lustre  teacups  which  had,  inap- 
propriately as  might  appear,  come  his  way. 
But  he  had  no  fault  to  find  with  Fortune's 
caprice.  He  had  always  loved  those  little 
shiny  cups,  whose  natural  claim  to  handles 
had  been  mysteriously  denied  them.  As  he 
lifted  one  of  them  in  his  hand,  his  mind  was 
crossed  by  a  curious  analogy  with  himself. 
Was  there  not  something  akin  to  their  in- 
genuous futility  in  his  own  equipment  for 
life?  He  too  had  his  shiny  surfaces,  oh, 
yes!  and  his  ready  receptivity.  Was  it  per- 
haps the  handles  that  he  too  had  lacked? 
Was  that  why  he  had — well,  spilled  so  much 
out  of  life?  why  the  cup  had  so  often  slipped, 
just  when  the  elixir  was  brimming?  Across 
his  fanciful  reverie  struck  his  brother's  voice, 
harshly  breaking  in  upon  the  lower  murmur 
of  conversation. 

"I  have  something  to  say,  that  you  must 
all  hear." 

To  most  of  those  present  the  accent  was 


32  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

merely  a  trifle  more  strenuous  than  usual. 
But  to  Robert's  ear,  trained  to  the  percep- 
tion of  undertones,  there  was  a  difference. 
Nor  did  it  escape  Louisa's  notice.  She 
glanced  at  her  husband  in  quick  anxiety. 
Yes,  his  face  was  tense  with  suppressed 
emotion,  as  she  had  rarely  seen  it.  He 
stood  in  rigid  isolation  over  there  by  the 
desk,  the  very  picture  of  stolid  self-suf- 
ficiency; yet  in  those  square-set  shoulders,  in 
that  stiffly  awkward  pose,  was  something 
that  smote  her  to  the  heart. 

In  his  hand  Aleck  held  a  pair  of  gold- 
bowed  spectacles.  There  was  no  one  in  that 
little  company  that  did  not  recognize  them 
at  a  glance,  though  none  attached  any 
special  significance  to  their  appearance  at 
just  that  juncture.  They  had  been  included 
in  the  little  collection  of  valuables  which  the 
Law  of  Chance — sometimes  so  curiously 
relevant — had  awarded  Aleck.  When  he 
had  come  upon  them  thus,  a  moment  since, 
he  had  suffered  a  severe  shock.  It  was 
not  the  peculiar  shape  of  the  heavy  gold  rims, 
squared  off  at  the  corners,  that  appealed 
with  such  poignant  force  to  his  memory,— 
not  the  initials  cut  in  the  edge,  recording  a 
gift  from  husband  to  wife.  It  was  nothing 


Aleck 

He  stood  in  rigid  isolation  over  there  by  the  desk. 


•    •• 


Old  Lady  Pratt' s  Spectacles.  33 

less  than  a  startlingly  realistic  vision  of  the 
bright  black  eyes  that  had  animated  them 
for  so  many  decades, — of  those  eyes,  so 
shrewd,  so  humorous,  so  kindly,  and  always 
so  unerringly  clear, — eyes  before  whose  pene- 
trating glance  the  boldest  child  had  firmly 
believed  that  "his  sin  would  surely  find  him 
out."  What  other  articles  might  have 
fallen  to  his  share  Aleck  heeded  not.  He 
had  seen  only  those  spectacles,  and  more 
distinctly  still  the  eyes  of  her  whom  he  had 
loved  and  reverenced  all  his  life.  And  now, 
as  he  stood  before  his  kindred,  with  the 
glasses  in  his  hand,  he  was  impelled  to  speech 
by  a  power  that  he  never  once  thought  of 
resisting. 

"I  have  something  to  say/*  he  declared, 
"that  you  must  all  hear." — And  in  face  of 
the  censure,  the  disparagement,  the  ridicule 
he  was  inviting,  his  bearing  only  stiffened  to 
a  greater  tension,  while  a  queer,  discordant 
break  shook  his  voice.  "The  Realty  Com- 
pany bond  which  you  have  all  heard  about 
has  been  found.  Robert  had  nothing  to  do 
with  the  loss  of  it.  I  myself  had  taken  it  in 
charge,  and  then — forgotten." 

A  slight  movement  stirred  the  little  com- 
pany, but  no  one  spoke,  although  all  eyes 


34  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

were  fixed  upon  him,  as  he  went  on  to  the 
bitter  end. 

"I  apologize  to  you  all,"  he  said,  while  a 
dark  flush  mounted  to  his  very  hair.  "I 
apologize  to  you  all,  and  most  of  all  to 
Robert." 

There  was  a  second's  embarrassed  silence; 
then  the  click  of  a  small  tea-cup  set  in  a 
saucer  as  Robert  remarked,  in  a  tone  of  easy 
unconcern,  "That 's  all  right,  Aleck.  I 
always  told  you  the  matter  was  not  worth 
talking  about!" 

And  at  that  the  murmur  of  voices  was 
resumed,  and  each  member  of  the  company 
fell  to  examining  his  newly  acquired  pos- 
sessions with  an  exaggerated  interest. 

When  the  last  guest  had  departed,  Aleck 
returned  from  escorting  his  Aunt  Harriet, 
now  the  senior  member  of  the  family,  to  her 
carriage.  He  walked  up  the  path  with  drag- 
ging step,  his  head  bowed,  his  hands  clasped 
behind  him,  prey  to  a  profound  nervous  re- 
action. They  had  all  been  very  kind,  oh 
yes.  The  Pratts  were  a  good  sort;  not  one 
of  them  all  had  shown  the  least  disposition 
to  exult  in  his  downfall.  Uncle  Ben,  to  be 
sure,  who  must  have  his  joke,  had  poked 
him  in  the  ribs  and  said  something  quite 


Old  Lady  Pratt1  s  Spectacles.  35 

inoffensive  about  humble-pie ;  but  Uncle  Ben's 
jokes  never  rankled.  A  cousin  or  two  had 
gone  so  far  as  to  give  his  hand  a  significant 
squeeze  under  cover  of  the  general  leave 
taking,  which  was  a  long  sight  worse  than 
Ben's  pie.  But  they  meant  well.  Yes, 
they  had  all  been  very  kind, — especially 
Aunt  Harriet,  who  had  leaned  from  her  car- 
riage to  say,  "I  think  mother  would  have 
been  pleased,  Aleck,"  adding, — the  better 
to  point  her  allusion, — "I  wondered  whether 
you  realized  that  you  were  holding  her 
spectacles  in  your  hand  all  the  time." 

Realized  it!  As  if  he  had  realized  any- 
thing else !  And  he  did  not,  even  now,  regret 
what  it  had  driven  him  to.  No,  he  did  not 
regret  it, — except  for  Louisa.  It  had  hurt 
at  the  time,  hurt  atrociously,  but  now  that  it 
was  over,  the  only  person  that  really  seemed 
to  matter  was  Louisa.  Louisa  had  always 
respected  him  so.  He  had  always  been 
aware  of  her  respect;  but  only  now  did  he 
perceive  how  much  it  had  meant  to  him 
all  these  years.  He  somehow  could  not  bear 
to  step  down  from  the  pedestal  which  he  felt 
assured  that  he  had  occupied  in  her  esteem. 

As  he  entered  the  house,  in  gloomy  self- 
absorption,  and  drew  near  the  library,  his 


36  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

attention  was  arrested  by  a  muffled  sound. 
He  stayed  his  step,  embarrassed  and  alarmed. 
There,  in  the  chair  where  he  himself  had  sat 
enthroned  an  hour  ago,  in  fancied  security, 
was  Louisa,  her  arms  resting  on  the  desk, 
her  head  upon  them,  sobbing  gently.  The 
lamp  shone  full  upon  the  pretty  hair,  striking 
its  decorous  brown  plaits  into  bronze.  Had 
they  been  less  severely  disciplined,  those 
heavy  plaits  of  hair,  they  might  have  got 
entangled  in  the  gold-bowed  spectacles,  so 
close  did  these  lie,  there  where  they  had 
dropped,  when  their  brief  mission  was  ac- 
complished. 

A  quick  compunction  seized  Aleck.  He 
had  not  thought  that  she  would  take  it  this 
way;  he  had  only  imagined  her  thinking 
less  highly  of  him.  But  that  she  should 
feel  it  like  this,  that  she  too  should  be 
mortified  and  distressed, — on  that  he  had 
not  reckoned.  He  could  not  remember  that 
he  had  ever  before  seen  her  cry  since  their 
little  Emmy  died.  Why,  this  would  never 
do,  never  in  the  world ! 

He  crossed  the  room,  with  a  curious  hesi- 
tancy and  self -distrust,  and  stood  beside  her, 
deeply  troubled,  not  on  his  own  account,  but 
for  her. 


Old  Lady  Pratt' s  Spectacles.  37 

"Don't  take  it  so  hard,  dear,"  he  begged. 
When  before  had  he  ever  called  her  "dear"? 
"  Nobody  's  going  to  think  the  less  of  you." 

"Of  me?"  she  sobbed.  "Of  me?  Oh, 
Aleck!" 

He  began  patting  her  shoulder  rather  awk- 
wardly. 

"Don't  cry!"  he  entreated.  "Don't  cry, 
— dearest!11 

At  that  reckless,  that  incredible  endear- 
ment, Louisa  lifted  a  face,  radiant  through 
its  tears. 

"I'm  not  taking  it  hard,"  she  gasped, 
with  a  blissful  inconsequence.  "  I  never  was 
so  happy  in  my  life  before!" 

"Happy,  Louisa?     Happy?" 

"Yes,  happy!  Ah,  don't  you  under- 
stand? You  've  been  wrong,  wrong,  out- 
rageously wrong ! — and  you  '  ve  owned  up 
like  a  splendid  great  hero,  and — oh,  Aleck,  J 
adore  you!"  And,  seizing  his  faithful  hand, 
she  pressed  her  face  against  it  in  an  excess  of 
joyful  emotion. 

Then  Aleck,  grown  old  before  his  time  on 
a  diet  of  respect  and  esteem  and  such-like 
sober  fare,  took  his  first  draught  of  adoration 
like  a  man.  What  if  it  did  go  to  his  head  a 
bit?  Louisa  would  have  been  the  last  to 


38  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

mind  that.  For  suddenly  she  felt  herself 
caught  up  into  her  husband's  arms  in  a  swift 
embrace  which  was  quite  the  most  delectable 
thing  she  had  ever  known.  And  as  she  hid 
her  face  against  the  familiar  waistcoat,  on 
which  she  had  that  very  morning  sewed  an 
unconscious  button,  "  Louisa,"  she  heard  him 
declare,  with  an  uncontrollable  throb  of  feel- 
ing, "Louisa,  I  don't  care  what  they  say 
about  me,  now  that  I  know  you  are  on  my 
side, — and  grandmother, "  he  added,  under 
his  breath. 

Whereupon  those  same  gold-bowed  spec- 
tacles might  have  been  seen  to  twinkle  more 
knowingly  than  ever. 


II. 

THE  TOMBOY. 

BY  the  time  Sophie  Pratt  had  got  to 
be  twenty  years  of  age,  her  father 
had  all  but  given  up  hope  of  her  ever 
getting  married.  This  not  because  she  was 
unattractive, — quite  the  contrary  in  fact, — 
but  because  he  could  not  conceive  of  any 
man  in  his  senses  marrying  an  incorrigible 
tomboy. 

The  young  lady  herself,  however,  enter- 
tained no  such  misgivings.  From  child- 
hood up  she  had  looked  forward  with 
cheerful  confidence  to  the  married  estate,  to 
which  she  felt  herself  distinctly  called  by 
reason  of  her  strong  preference  for  playing 
with  boys. 

"As  if  getting  married  was  games  and 

stunts!"  her  brother  Sandy  used  to  argue, 

with  much  heat  and  no  little  show  of  reason. 

For  Sandy,  in  whose  mind  weddings  were 

39 


40  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

fatally  associated  with  velvet  jackets  and 
patent-leather  pumps,  cherished  a  deep- 
seated  aversion  to  matrimony  and  all  its 
attendant  ceremonies.  But  to  Aleck,  their 
father,  that  sacred  institution  offered  the 
only  prospect  of  relief  from  a  well-nigh  in- 
tolerable cross. 

Some  there  were  who  held  that  the  in- 
tentions of  Providence,  usually  so  inscrutable, 
were  never  more  plainly  manifest  than  in  the 
bestowal  upon  Aleck  Pratt  of  a  tomboy 
daughter.  For  while  the  good  man  would 
have  been  properly  grieved  had  this  eldest 
child  of  his  developed  some  physical  infirmity 
or  moral  twist,  the  circumstance  could  hardly 
have  furnished  that  daily  and  hourly  flagella- 
tion of  spirit  commonly  regarded  as  bene- 
ficial, and  which  was  mercilessly  inflicted 
upon  him  at  the  hands  of  his  innocent  child. 
The  sight  of  a  little  girl — anybody's  little  girl 
—walking  fences  or  playing  hop-scotch,  was 
an  offence  to  his  well-ordered  mind.  Inso- 
much that  when  his  wife  Louisa  sought  to 
placate  him  by  the  confession  that  she  her- 
self had  been  something  of  a  tomboy  in  her 
day,  he  could  only  render  thanks  that  he  had 
not  been  earlier  made  aware  of  the  circum- 
stance, since  the  knowledge  thereof  must 


The  Tomboy.  41 

inevitably  have  deterred  him  from  what  had 
been  on  the  whole  a  very  happy  marriage. 
This  guarded  admission,  made  in  the  secrecy 
of  his  own  consciousness,  was  characteristic 
of  Aleck.  His  feelings  of  satisfaction  were 
habitually  under  better  control  than  his 
sense  of  injury. 

In  this,  as  in  nearly  every  particular, 
little  Sophie  formed  a  sprightly  antithesis 
to  her  excellent  father.  The  delights  of  life 
it  was  that  she  keenly  realized, — the  joy 
of  living  that  sent  her  scampering  along  the 
decorous  thoroughfares  of  Dunbridge,  that 
gave  her  the  catlike  agility  which  made 
nothing  of  the  most  contumacious  apple  tree 
or  the  dizziest  barn-loft.  It  was  sheer  bub- 
bling spirits  that  set  her  whistling  like  a 
bobolink  under  the  very  nose  of  her  out- 
raged parent.  Scant  comfort  did  Aleck 
derive  from  his  brother  Robert's  assurance 
that  the  little  bobolink  whistled  in  tune. 

"Might  as  well  swear  grammatically," 
he  would  declare,  in  cold  disgust;  thereby 
causing  Robert  to  rejoice  mightily  at  thought 
of  the  salutary  discipline  in  store  for  the 
tomboy's  father. 

Nor  was  Robert  alone  in  his  unchastened 
triumph.  Old  Lady  Pratt  herself  was  not 


42  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

above  breathing  the  pious  hope  that  Aleck 
had  got  his  come-uppance  at  last.  And 
although  she  was  forced  to  depart  this  life 
before  the  situation  had  fully  developed,  she 
did  not  do  so  without  many  a  premonitory 
chuckle  at  her  grandson's  expense. 

"You'll  never  fetch  it  over  that  girl  of 
yours,"  she  assured  him  more  than  once. 
"You  might  as  well  try  to  make  an  India- 
rubber  ball  lie  flat." 

And  Aleck's  handsome,  clean-shaven 
mouth  would  set  itself  in  a  straight  line 
indicative  quite  as  much  of  martyrdom  as  of 
resistance. 

Little  Sophie,  meanwhile,  who  could  no 
more  help  being  a  tomboy  than  she  could 
help  having  curly  hair  and  a  straight  back, 
took  reprimands  and  chastisement  in  per- 
fectly good  part,  all  unconscious  of  that  filial 
mission  from  which  her  elders  hoped  so 
much.  For  herself,  she  had  but  two  griev- 
ances against  Fate:  namely,  the  necessity 
of  wearing  hoop-skirts,  and  the  misfortune 
of  having  been  christened  Sophie, — a  soft, 
"squushy,"  chimney-corner  name,  ludi- 
crously unsuited  to  a  girl  who  could  fire  a 
stone  like  a  boy.  But,  after  all,  there  was 
compensation  in  the  fact  that  she  could  fire 


The  Tomboy.  43 

a  stone  the  right  way,  and  not  toss  it  up 
like  an  omelette  as  most  little  girls  did; 
while  as  to  the  hoop-skirts,  whatever  their 
iniquities  (which  were  legion),  they  had 
never  yet  deterred  her  from  any  indulgence 
of  her  natural  proclivities.  Why,  there  was 
a  tradition  in  the  neighborhood  that  the 
first  time  Sophie  Pratt  stuck  her  feet  under 
the  straps  of  her  brother's  stilts,  she  had 
walked  off  on  them  as  a  calf  walks  about  on 
his  legs  the  day  he  is  born. 

After  which  exposition  of  the  child's 
quality  it  is  perhaps  superfluous  to  state  that 
she  was  famous  for  hairbreadth  escapes,  or 
that  she  had  a  way  of  coming  out  of  them 
with  a  whole  skin.  She  was  indeed  a  living 
witness  to  the  efficacy  of  that  spontaneous 
order  of  gymnastics  which  is  independent  of 
rule  and  regimen;  for,  now  that  she  was  past 
her  teens,  she  could  recall  having  been  so 
much  as  ill-abed  only  once  in  her  life,  long, 
long  ago,  on  which  memorable  occasion  the 
doctor  came  and  stuck  a  spoon  down  her 
throat  and  nearly  strangled  her.  But  he 
was  so  firm  about  it  that  she  never  squirmed 
at  all,  and  when  it  was  over  he  called  her  a 
good  girl.  She  used  in  those  childish  days 
to  wish  it  might  happen  again,  just  so  that 


44  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

she  might  hear  him  call  her  a  good  girl.  For 
the  doctor  had  a  beautiful  voice,  low  and 
wise, — oh,  very  wise, — but  somehow  it  went 
straight  through  you,  and  Sophie  did  like 
things  to  go  through  her.  But  she  was  in- 
curably healthy  and  got  no  more  compli- 
ments from  the  doctor,  who  never  took  the 
least  notice  of  her  when  he  came  to  attend 
the  interesting  invalids  of  the  family.  This 
was  of  course  quite  natural,  since  the  doctor, 
being  even  then  an  elderly  widower, — going 
on  for  thirty! — with  a  little  girl  of  his  own 
to  look  after,  could  hardly  be  expected  to 
bother  with  a  small  tomboy  who  never  had 
anything  the  matter  with  her. 

Then  all  of  a  sudden,  before  anybody 
knew  what  she  was  about,  the  small  tom- 
boy had  grown  into  a  big  tomboy, — a  gay, 
flashing,  exuberant  girl  of  twenty,  who  could 
out-skate  and  out-swim  the  best  of  them,  or 
ride  bareback  when  she  got  the  chance, — 
who  could  even  curl  up  in  a  corner,  if  cir- 
cumstances favored,  and  pore  over  her 
Shakespeare  by  the  hour  together, — but 
who  was  never  to  be  caught  sewing  a  seam 
or  working  cross-stitch  unless  upon  com- 
pulsion. And  Aleck  wondered  morosely 
why  he  of  all  men  should  have  been  singled 


The  Tomboy.  45 

out  for  this  particular  penance,  and  why  on 
earth  some  misguided  youngster  did  n't 
come  along  and  take  the  girl  off  his  hands. 
Youngsters  enough  there  were,  dancing  at- 
tendance upon  the  young  hoyden,  but  so  far 
as  Aleck  could  discover,  all  had  heretofore 
warily  avoided  committing  themselves. 

"I  doubt  if  she  ever  has  an  offer,"  he  de- 
clared impatiently,  as  he  and  Louisa  were 
driving  together  behind  old  Rachel  one  day 
in  early  spring.  The  outburst  was  called 
forth  by  the  sight  of  Sophie,  tramping 
across-lots  with  Hugh  Cornish,  pitcher  on 
the  'Varsity  Nine. 

"But  you  surely  wouldn't  want  her  to 
marry  young  Cornish,"  Louisa  demurred, 
"seeing  how  you  feel  about  college  athletics." 

"I  should  be  thankful  to  have  her  marry 
anybody!"  Aleck  insisted,  treating  Rachel 
to  a  sharp  flick  of  the  lash,  which  caused  the 
good  beast  to  jerk  them  almost  off  the  seat. 

Whereupon  Louisa,  in  the  interest,  not 
only  of  corporal  equilibrium,  but  of  marital 
harmony  as  well,  allowed  him  to  have  that 
last  word  which  he  looked  upon  as  his  in- 
alienable prerogative. 

After  that  they  were  silent  for  a  time, 
while  the  excellent  Rachel  drew  them  at  her 


46  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

own  pace  along  the  quiet  highway.  Sophie 
and  her  stalwart  cavalier  were  long  since 
lost  to  view,  yet  Aleck's  mind  still  dwelt 
upon  the  picture,  harassed  perhaps  by  a  gnaw- 
ing conviction  that  the  girl  had  not  got  into 
that  field  by  the  legitimate  ingress.  And 
presently  Louisa,  divining  her  husband's 
mood  as  a  good  wife  will,  cast  about  for  a 
palliative. 

"In  some  ways,"  she  remarked,  "Sophie 
is  a  good  deal  like  your  mother,  Aleck.  The 
dear  woman  was  perhaps  not  quite  so  domes- 
tic as  some,  but  there  never  was  her  like  for 
rising  to  an  emergency." 

Here  Aleck,  as  in  duty  bound,  emitted 
a  corroboratory  grunt,  though  it  must  be 
owned  that  he  had  never  more  than  half 
approved  of  his  charming  but  undeniably 
erratic  mother.  And  Louisa,  encouraged 
by  that  grunt  of  acquiescence,  deemed  the 
moment  favorable  for  pursuing  her  theme. 

"Just  think,"  she  urged,  "what  a  tower 
of  strength  the  child  was  when  little  Henry 
was  so  ill  last  winter.  After  the  first 
week  the  doctor  was  quite  willing  to  have 
her  left  in  charge  for  hours  at  a  time.  That 
was  a  great  compliment  to  pay  a  girl  of 
twenty." 


The  Tomboy.  47 

"  Hm !  He  did  say  she  was  a  good  nurse," 
Aleck  admitted ;  for  he  was  a  just  man. 

"Well,  he  ought  to  know,  for  he  was 
watching  her  as  a  cat  watches  a  mouse. 
Especially  that  night  when  we  were  all  so 
frightened,  the  night  he  spent  with  us.  You 
remember?" 

But  Aleck,  not  to  be  drawn  into  any 
more  concessions,  abruptly  changed  the 
subject. 

"What 's  become  of  that  girl  of  his?"  he 
inquired. 

"Lily?  Why,  she  has  been  abroad  with 
her  aunt  this  last  year.  Dear,  dear!  I 
often  think  how  hard  it  was  for  the  poor  man 
to  be  left  a  widower  so  young!" 

At  which  the  talk  trailed  off  into  harmless 
gossip,  and  Aleck's  face  cleared,  as  a  man's 
does,  when  he  transfers  his  attention  from 
his  own  perplexities  to  those  of  his  neighbors. 

Fate,  meanwhile,  was  doing  its  best  to  set 
his  wisdom  at  naught,  and  we  all  know  Fate's 
resourcefulness  in  such  matters.  For  at 
that  very  moment  Hugh  Cornish,  fresh  from 
an  intercollegiate  victory,  was  bracing  him- 
self for  that  categorical  proposal  which 
Aleck,  too  faint-hearted  by  half,  had  prema- 
turely despaired  of. 


48  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

Sophie  was  as  usual  in  high  spirits,  none 
the  less  so,  if  the  truth  be  known,  because  of 
the  glory  inherent  in  the  attendance  of  so 
distinguished  a  personage.  As  they  tramped 
along  together  over  the  broad  expanse  of 
turf,  elastic  with  the  forward  pressing  of  a 
thousand  hidden,  mounting  urgencies  of 
spring,  she  was  deterred  from  challenging  her 
escort  to  a  race  only  by  the  well-founded 
conviction  that  he  would  win.  She  gave 
him  a  sidelong  glance,  of  which  he  appeared 
to  be  quite  unconscious — a  man  accustomed 
to  the  plaudits  of  the  multitude  might  well  be 
oblivious  of  such  a  little  thing  as  that, — and 
she  concluded  that  she  would  have  liked  the 
inarticulate  giant  well  enough,  if  it  had  not 
been  for  his  ill-judged  zeal  in  the  matter  of 
helping  her  over  stone  walls.  She  supposed 
it  was  his  nature,  however,  as  it  was  the 
nature  of  the  silly  tie-back  skirt  she  wore 
to  dispute  her  freedom  of  movement.  Al- 
most as  bad  the  thing  was  as  those  hoops 
which  had  been  the  bugbear  of  her  childhood. 
Only  a  few  minutes  ago,  as  they  were  scram- 
bling through  a  thicket,  that  absurd  skirt  had 
twitched  her  backward  so  viciously  that  she 
had  been  caught  taking  Hugh's  great  offi- 
cious paw  in  spite  of  herself.  Neither  of 


The  Tomboy.  49 

them  had  said  much  since  then,  though 
Sophie  had  by  this  time  quite  recovered  her 
temper,  while  Hugh,  for  his  part,  had  been 
too  much  preoccupied  to  observe  that  she 
had  lost  it. 

Presently,  after  a  somewhat  prolonged 
silence,  Sophie,  at  sight  of  a  pair  of  horns 
over  yonder,  was  so  magnanimous  as  to  own 
that  she  was  afraid  of  cows.  One  must 
find  something  to  talk  about,  and  Hugh's 
resources  might  be  trusted  to  fall  short  even 
of  the  bovine  level. 

"I  'm  glad  there's  something  you  are 
afraid  of,"  he  remarked,  in  his  stolid  way. 
Whereupon  she  had  immediate  resort  to 
hedging. 

"Oh,  well,"  she  explained,  "I'm  not 
afraid,  really.  Not  with  my  brains,  you 
understand.  Only  with  my  elbows." 

"With  your  elbows?" 

"Yes,  it 's  only  that  when  a  cow  stares  at 
me,  or  waves  her  horns  ever  so  little,  I  get 
the  jumps  in  my  elbows." 

"You  mean  your  nerves.  I  'm  glad 
you  Ve  got  nerves." 

Hugh  was  apt  to  be  repetitious,  but  then, 
he  was  a  personage,  and  fairly  entitled  to 
indulgence.  So 


5O  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

"Why  are  you  glad?"  she  inquired,  will- 
ing to  humor  him  for  the  battles  he  had  won. 

"Because,"  he  answered,  standing  stock 
still  and  squaring  himself  for  the  attack,  "a 
girl  who  's  got  nerves  needs  a  man  to  take 
care  of  her.  And — and — Sophie,  what  I 
want  is  to  take  care  of  you — for  always." 

And  before  she  could  get  her  breath  he  had 
added  something  fatuous  about  a  strong 
arm,  and  Sophie,  to  whose  self-sufficient 
spirit  other  people's  strong  arms  were  a 
negligible  quantity,  felt  herself  easily  mistress 
of  the  situation.  Good  gracious,  she  thought, 
was  that  the  way  they  did  it?  Well,  there 
was  nothing  very  alarming  about  that !  And 
she  rashly  undertook  to  laugh  it  off.  Upon 
which  the  popular  idol,  inured  only  to  that 
order  of  opposition  which  may  be  expressed 
in  terms  of  brawn  and  muscle,  came  suddenly 
out  of  his  calm  stolidity  as  he  was  said  to 
have  a  way  of  doing  when  the  game  was 
on. 

Then  Sophie  sprang  to  her  guns,  and  so 
effectual  was  the  repulse  that,  next  thing 
she  knew,  she  was  climbing  a  stone  wall  to 
the  road,  quite  unassisted,  while  Hugh 
stalked  in  great  dudgeon  toward  the  woods. 
And  her  silly  tie-back  skirt  played  her  one  of 


The  Tomboy.  51 

those  scurvy  tricks  that  are  in  the  nature  of 
petticoats,  and  somehow  or  other  a  small 
stone  tilted,  and  a  big  stone  shifted,  and 
there  was  her  right  foot  caught  in  a  kind  of 
vise,  and  to  save  herself  she  could  n't  wriggle 
loose  without  danger  of  bringing  the  whole 
thing  down  on  her  ankle.  It  was  not  doing 
any  harm  for  the  moment,  but  it  was  igno- 
minious to  be  squatting  there  like  a  trussed 
fowl.  She  only  hoped  Hugh  would  not  look 
round  and  catch  her  in  such  a  plight.  She 
shuddered  to  think  of  his  triumph.  But  he 
never  once  turned  his  head,  as  he  went 
stalking  away  toward  the  woods.  Well,  so 
much  for  Hugh! 

And  here  were  wheels  on  the  road, — not 
her  father  and  mother,  she  hoped!  But  no, 
it  was  nothing  but  the  doctor,  the  very  man 
she  would  have  chosen  for  the  emergency. 
It  was  not  the  first  time  he  had  caught  her 
climbing  stone  walls;  in  fact  he  had  once 
picked  her  off  one  and  given  her  a  ride  home, 
telling  her  that  he  was  to  be  put  out  to 
pasture  himself  in  a  day  or  two,  going  up 
with  Lily  to  see  the  colored  leaves.  With 
this  reassuring  recollection,  and  reflecting 
also  that  he  would  understand  how  to  get 
her  loose  without  pulling  her  toes  off,  be- 


52  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

cause  he  knew  just  how  they  were  stuck  into 
her  foot,  she  promptly  made  a  signal  of 
distress. 

•Then  the  doctor  drove  on  to  the  grassy 
border  across  the  road,  and  making  fast  the 
weight,  came  toward  her,  looking  exactly  as 
he  had  looked  years  ago,  when  he  stuck  the 
spoon  down  her  throat  and  called  her  a  good 
girl, — wise  and  firm  and  very  professional. 
Somehow,  in  spite  of  their  later  intercourse, 
much  of  it  so  important,  and  in  which  she 
was  aware  of  having  played  a  creditable 
part,  Sophie  always  thought  of  the  doctor  as 
sticking  a  spoon  down  her  throat  and  call- 
ing her  a  good  girl,  in  a  voice  that  went 
through  her.  How  nice  to  be  Lily  and  have 
a  father  like  that ! 

The  doctor  meanwhile  was  finding  it  a 
ticklish  job  to  lift  that  stone  without  hurt- 
ing the  foot.  He  said  afterward  that  it  was 
one  of  the  most  delicate  operations  he  had 
ever  been  called  upon  to  perform.  When 
it  was  accomplished,  and  the  foot  drawn  out, 
the  impromptu  patient  said,  "Thank  you, 
doctor,"  very  politely,  and  stood  up  on  top 
of  the  wall  to  stretch  herself.  But  as  he 
extended  a  hand  to  help  her  down,  she 
jumped  lightly  off  to  the  other  side. 


The  Tomboy.  53 

" Still  the  tomboy!"  he  remarked  in- 
dulgently. 

"Yes,"  she  retorted;  and  then,  with  an 
exultant  thought  of  her  late  encounter, 
"Father  says  I  shall  die  an  old  maid  if  I  go 
on  like  this!" 

It  was  a  very  flighty  thing  to  say,  but 
Sophie  was  feeling  flighty,  as  a  girl  does 
after  a  first  offer,  especially  when  it  has  been 
based  on  the  strong-arm  plea.  As  if  she 
were  to  be  the  beneficiary  indeed! 

"Should  you  like  that?"  the  doctor  asked, 
studying  the  vivid  young  face  with  amused 
attention.  She  looked  anything  but  a  sick- 
nurse,  the  little  fraud!  A  reversion  to  type, 
he  told  himself,  complacently  misusing  the 
familiar  phrase.  He  remembered  having 
once  stated  in  a  moment  of  inspiration  that  a 
tomboy  was  an  organism  endowed  with  an 
overplus  of  vitality.  Well,  here  was  vitality 
with  a  vengeance!  It  emanated  from  her 
every  feature,  played  in  her  lightest  move- 
ment. It  quite  made  the  good  doctor's 
nerves  tingle!  Nor  was  it  all  a  question  of 
youth,  either.  One  did  n't  lose  that  sort  of 
thing  with  the  years.  And  it  crossed  the 
doctor's  mind,  parenthetically,  that  he  was 
himself  on  the  sunny  side  of  forty.  He  had 


54  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

just  saved  a  man's  life  with  a  quick  operation. 
He  could  never  have  done  a  thing  like  that  in 
his  early  twenties,  when  he  was  a  hot-headed 
medical  student,  making  a  runaway  match 
with  Jennie,  poor  child!  Oh,  yes,  vitality 
had  staying  power,  and  this  little  friend  of 
his  certainly  possessed  it  to  an  unusual 
degree. 

"And  how  would  you  like  that?"  he  re- 
peated, a  quizzical  look  gleaming  in  those 
wise,  kind  eyes  of  his. 

"  Oh, that  would  depend,"  Sophie  answered, 
with  a  little  toss. 

"On  what?" 

"On  Mr.  Right,  I  suppose." 

Old  Mrs.  Inkley  was  expecting  the  doctor 
that  very  minute,  but,  after  all,  there  was 
nothing  really  the  matter  with  her  but 
temper,  and  if  he  found  her  more  spicy  than 
usual,  all  the  better  for  him.  So  he  lin- 
gered a  bit,  and  remarked,  in  his  fatherly 
way, — at  least  Sophie  supposed  it  must  be 
fatherly,  since  he  had  a  sixteen-year-old 
daughter  of  his  own, — "I  wonder  what  a 
young  girl's  idea  of  Mr.  Right  is,  nowadays. 
A  baseball  hero,  I  suppose." 

1 '  A  baseball  hero ! "  she  flung  back.  ' '  Any- 
thing but  that!" 


The  Tomboy 

"  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  know  more  about  Mr.  Right," 
she  remarked,  with  a  saucy  challenge. 


The  Tomboy.  55 

11  You  don't  say  so!" 

"They  think  they  are  so  strong,"  she 
explained.  "They  want  to  take  care  of 
you." 

"Oh,  that's  it!  I  never  understood  be- 
fore. I  Ve  got  a  daughter  just  growing  up, 
you  know,  so  I  gather  data  where  I  can." 

Upon  which,  abandoning  for  the  time  be- 
ing his  strictly  scientific  investigations,  he 
turned  to  regain  his  buggy. 

But  Sophie,  tomboy  to  the  last,  was  over 
the  wall  in  a  trice. 

Coming  up  behind  him, — "Perhaps  you 
would  like  to  know  more  about  Mr.  Right," 
she  remarked,  with  a  saucy  challenge, — 
"on  account  of  your  daughter." 

Startled  to  find  her  so  near,  he  turned 
sharp  about.  But  the  quizzical  eyes  met 
hers  with  an  answering  gleam  that  was  en- 
tirely reassuring.  So,  without  a  misgiving, 
and  thinking  to  please  the  kind  doctor, — 
"Do  you  remember  sticking  a  spoon  down 
my  throat  years  ago?"  she  inquired. 

"I  'm  sure  I  don't,"  he  laughed.  "I  Ve 
stuck  spoons  down  the  throats  of  half  the 
youngsters  in  Dunbridge." 

His  calling  her  youngster  settled  it. 
"Well,"  she  observed  demurely,  "I  made 


56  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

up  my  mind  that  day  that  I  should  marry 
somebody  exactly  like  you!" 

Exactly  like  him!  IJe  looked  into  those 
dancing  eyes,  he  felt  the  tingling  contagion 
of  that  vitality  he  had  been  philosophizing 
about,  again  he  remembered  that  he  was  on 
the  sunny  side  of  forty,  and  his  heart  leaped. 

"Why  not  marry  me?"  he  cried. 

And  Sophie's  heart,  being  all  unpractised 
in  the  most  primitive  motions,  knew  no 
better  than  to  stand  still. 

"Oh,— could  I?"  she  faltered. 

" Would  you?"  he  urged  vehemently, 
seizing  both  her  hands. 

But  she  snatched  them  away. 

"How  ridiculous!"  she  heard  herself  say. 
And  the  next  instant  she  was  over  the  wall, 
and  speeding  across  the  pasture,  to  the  tune 
of  a  heart  that  had  caught  the  rhythm  at 
last. 

With  a  long  look  at  the  flying  figure,  the 
doctor  turned  away  and  went  back  to  his 
buggy.  There  he  picked  up  the  weight, 
climbed  in,  and  drove  straight  to  Mrs.  Inkley, 
who  lived  in  a  boarding-house,  where  he  was 
quite  likely  to  find  other  patients  with 
nothing  the  matter  with  them.  But  there 
was  something  the  matter  with  the  doctor 


The  Tomboy.  57 

himself  this  time,  and  later  on  he  should 
have  to  take  up  his  own  case. 

His  case  did  not  lack  attention,  for  his 
friends  and  patients  took  it  up  with  great 
vigor.  One  and  all  declared  it  to  be  a  head- 
long affair;  quite  what  might  have  been 
expected  of  Sophie,  but  so  unlike  the  doctor, 
who  had  always  been  accounted  a  model  of 
caution  and  good  judgment,  and  of  touching 
constancy  to  the  memory  of  his  first  love. 
Old  Mrs.  Inkley  went  so  far  as  to  assert,  as 
any  Mrs.  Inkley,  old  or  young,  might  be 
depended  upon  to  do,  that  there  was  no 
fool  like  an  old  fool.  In  this  case,  con- 
sidering that  she  might  have  been  the  doc- 
tor's grandmother,  the  stricture  savored  of 
hyperbole. 

But,  for  the  culprits  themselves,  they  were 
chiefly  concerned  to  make  excuses  to  each 
other, — Sophie  declaring  that  she  had  not 
been  headlong,  for  she  had  been  in  love  with 
him  ever  since  he  stuck  that  spoon  down  her 
throat, — only  she  did  n't  know  it.  While  the 
doctor,  for  his  part,  strenuously  maintained 
that  he  had  never  given  her  a  thought  until 
the  very  moment  that  she  offered  herself  to 
him!  Naturally  he  declined  to  admit,  even 
to  himself,  that  he  had  been  thinking  about 


58  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

anything  but  his  patient  during  those  long 
hours  of  the  night  when  it  had  been  pro- 
fessionally incumbent  upon  him  to  keep  a 
close  watch  upon  the  interesting  young 
creature  whose  overplus  of  vitality  was 
standing  them  in  such  good  stead.  It  had 
certainly  been  a  revelation  of  the  girl's  char- 
acter, in  which  he  had  taken  a  keen  psycho- 
logical interest, — but  purely  psychological, 
he  would  have  himself  understand.  A  pretty 
state  of  things  it  would  be  if  a  doctor  were 
to  go  about  falling  in  love  with  his  nurses 
while  they  were  on  duty !  He  hoped  he  was 
old  enough  to  know  better  than  that ! 

And,  after  all,  the  one  thing  that  really 
mattered  was  to  get  the  consent  of  Aleck  and 
his  wife  to  hurry  up  the  wedding  so  that  they 
might  have  a  chance  to  get  sobered  down 
before  Lily  got  back.  For  really,  the  situ- 
ation was  too  surprisingly  delightful  just  at 
present  for  reasonable  behavior.  The  doctor 
was  so  far  gone  in  recklessness  that  more 
than  once  he  caught  himself  smiling  at  the 
way  he  had  stolen  a  march  on  Lily.  Lucky 
that  she  was  the  kind  of  girl  she  was,  by  the 
way,  for  if  she  had  been  a  less  vigilant  guard- 
ian all  these  years,  who  could  say  what 
might  have  befallen  him  before  ever  Sophie 


The  Tomboy.  59 

thought  of  proposing!  And  that  admission, 
that  there  might  perhaps  be  other  marriage- 
able young  women  in  the  world  than  Sophie, 
if  he  had  but  chanced  to  observe  them,  was 
the  only  indication  the  doctor  gave  of  having 
passed  his  first  youth. 

They  had  their  way,  of  course.  For 
when  Aleck  tried  to  conceal  his  satisfaction 
under  cover  of  the  perfunctory  argument 
that  a  man  who  had  once  made  a  runaway 
match  could  not  be  very  dependable,  Sophie 
retorted  that  she  thought  that  was  the  way 
such  things  should  always  be  managed,  and 
she  did  n't  know  but  she  and  the  doctor 
might  decide  upon  it  themselves.  At  which 
Aleck  was  so  scandalized  that  he  felt,  and 
not  for  the  first  time,  as  we  know,  that  he 
should  be  lucky  to  get  her  married  off  on  any 
terms.  And  when  her  mother  asked  how 
she  could  ever  expect  to  cope  with  a  grown- 
up stepdaughter,  she  said  she  was  glad  of 
the  chance  to  show  that  a  stepmother  could 
be  a  real  mother  to  a  girl!  And  she  said 
it  with  such  ingenuous  good  faith  that 
Louisa  did  n't  know  whether  to  laugh  or  cry. 

And  so  the  doctor  and  Sophie  were  married, 
and  lived  happily  ever  after, — until  Lily 
came  home. 


60  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

Sophie  had  essayed  a  correspondence  with 
her  stepdaughter,  but  she  had  made  little 
headway,  though  the  letters  were  punctili- 
ously answered. 

One  morning  in  early  September,  as  she 
sat  behind  the  coffee-urn,  doing  her  prettiest, 
and  very  pretty  it  was,  to  look  matronly, 
she  glanced  across  the  table  and  observed 
doubtfully,  "I've  just  had  a  letter  from 
Lily.  Would  you  like  to  read  it?" 

"Oh,  I  know  Lily's  letters  pretty  well," 
was  the  lazy  response.  "Can't  you  tell  me 
about  it?" 

"Well,  there  's  not  much  to  tell.  That  fs 
just  the  trouble.  I  wonder — do  you  think 
it  possible  that  she  may  be  afraid  of  me?" 

And  the  doctor,  who  knew  his  Lily  quite 
as  well  as  he  knew  her  letters,  replied,  with 
a  somewhat  artificial  cheerfulness, — for  the 
day  of  reckoning  was  at  hand, — "Oh,  that 
will  pass  off.  Just  you  see  if  it  does  n't. 
Shall  you  feel  like  driving  me  round  this 
morning?" 

"Feel  like  it!"  the  formidable  stepmother 
cried,  falling  joyfully  into  his  little  trap ;  and 
straightway  she  forgot  all  about  Lily. 

This  driving  the  doctor  round  was  in  itself 
a  delectable  function,  and  it  was  astonishing 


The  Tomboy.  61 

how  quickly  the  rounds  were  made,  and  how 
often  the  busy  practitioner  found  time  for  a 
spin  out  into  the  open  country.  He  said  it 
was  because  Sophie  was  a  so  much  better 
whip  than  he,  and  also  because  he  did  n't 
have  to  bother  with  the  weight.  But  it 
must  be  confessed  that  those  of  his  patients 
who  had  nothing  the  matter  with  them  were 
inclined  to  feel  neglected.  Old  Mrs.  Inkley 
said  that  she  had  half  a  mind  to  send  him 
about  his  business,  only  that  nobody  else 
understood  her  case! 

And  then,  by  the  time  these  two  young 
people — for  they  certainly  felt  near  enough 
of  an  age  to  be  twins — had  ceased  to  be 
an  object  of  interest  to  the  community  at 
large  and  were  settling  down  into  that 
state  of  homespun  content  which  is  about 
the  best  weave  there  is, — especially  when 
shot  through  with  flashes  of  something 
keener  and  more  stimulating  which  a  youth- 
ful dynamo  of  Sophie's  stamp  may  be  trust- 
ed to  set  in  motion, — the  inevitable  occurred, 
as  the  inevitable  is  forever  doing,  and  Lily 
arrived. 

Her  father  met  her  at  the  dock  and  brought 
her  home,  and  Sophie  was  at  the  open  door, 
her  hands  outstretched  in  eager  welcome. 


62  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

And  Lily  was  so  polite,  and  so  disconcert- 
ingly self-possessed,  that  Sophie  instantly 
experienced  that  fatal  sensation  in  the 
elbows  which  heretofore  only  one  created 
thing  had  had  the  power  to  induce,  and 
would  no  more  have  dared  kiss  her  than — 
well,  it  would  not  be  respectful  to  the  doctor's 
daughter  to  pursue  the  comparison. 

Thoroughly  unnerved,  and  for  the  first 
time  too  in  a  career  that  had  not  been  want- 
ing in  adventure,  Sophie  dropped  the  neatly 
gloved  hand  and  took  refuge  in  a  conven- 
tional observation  which  smacked  so  strongly 
of  her  father  that  it  gave  the  doctor  quite 
a  turn.  To  his  intense  relief,  however, 
this  proved  but  a  passing  seizure,  and  before 
the  day  was  out,  Sophie  was  her  own  spon- 
taneous, irresistible  self.  Irresistible  that  is 
to  Lily's  father, — a  fact  which  Lily  was  quick 
to  perceive  and  to  resent.  That  there  was 
something  seriously  amiss,  Sophie  became 
aware  to  her  cost,  if  not  to  her  complete  en- 
lightenment, when  rash  enough  to  venture 
upon  non-debatable  ground. 

Coming  into  Lily's  room  next  morning, — 
"Won't  you  let  me  help  you  unpack?" 
she  had  the  temerity  to  ask. 

"No,   thank  you,"  was  the  crisp  reply. 


The  Tomboy.  63 

"I  don't  like  to  have  a  stranger  handling  my 
things." 

And  Sophie,  rarely  at  a  loss  for  a  retort, 
bethought  herself  just  in  time  of  the  peculiar 
obligations  of  her  position,  the  which  she 
so  misconceived  as  to  rejoin,  with  preter- 
natural good  humor,  "I  hope  we  shan't  be 
strangers  long,  Lily." 

"In  a  way,  I  suppose  not,"  Lily  parried, 
while  she  measured  her  stepmother  with  a 
hostile  eye,  "since  we  've  got  to  live  in  the 
same  house." 

Whereat  Sophie,  still  rather  new  to  the 
exercise  of  angelic  virtues,  made  as  dignified 
an  exit  as  circumstances  would  permit. 

"And  I  meant  to  be  kind  to  her!"  she 
gasped.  "I  meant  to  be  such  a  good  step- 
mother! And  I  will  be,  too," — this  with  an 
accession  of  high  resolve,  materially  rein- 
forced by  a  pinch  of  the  Old  Adam,  "I  '11 
be  a  good  stepmother,  whether  or  no!" 

Now  Sophie  was  a  young  woman  of  strong 
will,  unschooled  to  reverses, — had  not  every- 
thing always  come  her  way,  even  to  the 
most  adorable  of  husbands  that  she  had  got 
just  for  the  asking? — and  she  certainly  had 
no  mind  to  be  thwarted  by  a  snip  of  a  girl 
like  Lily.  And  thus  put  upon  her  mettle, 


64  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

and  erroneously  concluding  that  Lily's  hos- 
tility was  but  an  instance  of  that  oft-incurred 
disapprobation  of  which  her  father  was  ex- 
ponent-in-chief,  she  unhesitatingly  launched 
out  upon  the  doubtful  emprise  of  changing 
her  nature.  She  would  be  a  tomboy  no 
longer,  but,  mindful  at  last  of  her  father's 
long-suffering  admonitions,  she  would  im- 
mediately institute  a  thoroughgoing  reform, 
in  deference  not,  alas,  to  her  own  filial 
obligations,  but  to  those  parental  respon- 
sibilities which  she  herself  had  so  confidently 
assumed.  Above  all,  she  would  be  inva- 
riably kind  to  Lily.  And  it  never  once 
dawned  upon  her  that  nothing  in  the  world 
could  have  been  so  exasperating  to  the  little 
rebel  as  this  conciliatory  attitude.  She  had 
come  home  armed  to  the  teeth  against  a 
tomboy  stepmother,  and  here  she  was  con- 
fronted with  a  pattern  of  good  manners  and 
good  temper,  in  face  of  which  the  poor 
child,  at  her  wit's  end,  relapsed  into  a 
smouldering  suspiciousness  which  found  its 
account  in  the  most  pertinacious  chaperoning 
ever  administered  to  a  pair  of  properly  ac- 
credited lovers. 

The  doctor  meanwhile  had  been  not  un- 
prepared for  trouble ;  for,  young  as  he  claimed 


The  Tomboy.  65 

to  be,  and  as  he  firmly  intended  to  remain,  he 
had  seen  something  of  human  nature  in  his 
day.  If  he  was  rather  taken  aback  to  find 
his  daughter  turning  the  tables  on  him  in 
this  highly  original  fashion,  he  was  too  fair- 
minded  to  begrudge  the  child  any  small  in- 
demnification she  could  devise  for  herself. 
What  did  bother  him  was  the  unlooked-for 
transformation  in  his  wife,  which  he  was  in- 
clined to  regard  as  a  violation  of  contract. 
He  took  her  point,  however,  for  he  had  had 
his  misgivings  touching  the  effect  of  her 
innocent  but  spirited  lawlessness  upon  the 
discreet  Lily.  And  he  also  entertained  the 
hope  that  so  precipitate  a  reform  might 
prove  short-lived. 

"Could  n't  you  relax  a  bit?"  he  inquired, 
at  last,  with  a  whimsical  supplication  difficult 
to  withstand. 

"But  I  simply  must  win  Lily  over,"  was 
the  ardent,  not  to  say  obdurate,  protest. 

"And  how  about  Lily's  father?" 

That  expressive  voice  of  his  could  be 
perilously  appealing.  But  the  young  enthu- 
siast was  on  her  guard. 

"Oh,  he's  too  dead  easy!"  she  retorted 
wickedly. 

In  which  lapse    from    grace  the   doctor 


66  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

was  obliged  to  find  what  consolation  he 
could. 

It  was  but  a  week  after  the  reign  of  de- 
corum had  set  in  that  they  repaired  to  the 
mountains  for  the  doctor's  autumn  holiday, 
Lily  in  assiduous  attendance.  The  self- 
constituted  chaperon  had  heroically  sacrificed 
a  seashore  invitation,  with  all  its  allurements, 
to  a  sense  of  duty  second  only  to  Sophie's 
own ;  and  this  although  she  had  been  urgently 
admonished  not  to  take  the  others  into  con- 
sideration at  all.  And  so  it  came  about  that 
the  proverbial  three,  almost  as  abhorrent 
to  Nature  in  certain  contingencies  as  the 
vacuum  she  more  consistently  repudiates, 
went  to  see  the  colored  leaves.  These  latter 
did  all  that  could  be  reasonably  expected 
of  them.  They  glowed  and  they  gleamed 
and  they  shimmered;  they  splashed  the 
mountain-sides  with  bronze  and  carmine; 
they  spread  a  gold-embroidered  canopy 
overhead  and  a  Persian  carpet  under  foot; 
and  Sophie,  who  had  never  seen  their  like, 
found  it  difficult  to  refrain  from  an  un- 
bridled expression  of  delight. 

Thanks,  however,  to  Lily's  repressive  in- 
fluence, she  succeeded  in  keeping  her  spirits 
in  check, — to  such  good  purpose  indeed  that, 


The  Tomboy.  67 

when  one  day  the  doctor  was  summoned  in 
consultation  to  a  remote  farmhouse,  no 
child  delivered  into  the  hands  of  an  un- 
scrupulous stepmother  could  have  felt  the 
sense  of  utter  abandonment  that  over- 
whelmed poor  Sophie,  as  she  turned  from 
bidding  him  good-by  and  confronted  the 
coldly  critical  eye  of  Lily.  True  to  her 
colors,  however,  she  made  a  valiant  rally. 

11  Shall  we  go  for  a  walk  later  on?"  she 
asked,  with  unflinching  affability. 

"Whatever  you  wish,"  was  the  crushing 
response. 

And  accordingly  just  at  the  perfect  hour 
of  the  day,  they  started  on  one  of  Lily's 
conventional  promenades.  Thus  they  cir- 
cumspectly followed  the  dusty  highway, 
though  fields  and  woods  were  beckoning; 
and  very  rough  going  it  would  have  been  for 
Sophie,  only  that  she  was  walking  in  step  to 
that  trumpet-call  of  color,  and  her  thoughts 
were  not  of  Lily,  but  of  Lily's  father. 

Perhaps  Lily  suspected  as  much,  and  it 
may  have  been  with  a  view  to  discounte- 
nancing the  indiscretion  that  she  remarked 
brusquely,  "I  wish  you  would  n't  race 
so." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Sophie,  bring- 


68  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

ing  herself  up  short  in  more  senses  than  one. 
"I  wasn't  thinking." 

"You  appeared  to  be,"  Lily  observed,  with 
veiled  satire.  After  which  brief  dialogue, 
conversation  became  if  anything  less  ani- 
mated than  before. 

Presently  Lily  announced,  as  if  she  had 
really  come  to  the  end  of  her  endurance, 
"I  'm  going  back  across  the  fields.  It's 
shorter." 

"Good!"  cried  Sophie,  literally  jumping 
at  the  chance.  "Here  's  a  gate." 

A  gate,  indeed!  Did  Lily  know  how 
to  estimate  the  concession? 

"Oh,  you'll  not  care  to  come,"  she  de- 
murred, with  a  too  palpable  satisfaction 
in  the  circumstance.  "You're  afraid  of 
cows,  you  know,  and  there  are  sure  to  be 
some  over  the  hill." 

And  Sophie,  yielding  to  the  spirit  rather 
than  to  the  letter  of  the  argument,  meekly 
acquiesced. 

"I  '11  meet  you  on  the  lower  road,"  she 
said.  And  then,  having  taken  down  the 
bars  and  put  them  up  again, — for  Lily  was 
peculiarly  liable  to  splinters, — she  stood  a 
moment,  watching  the  slender  figure  as  it 
progressed,  straight  and  stiff,  across  the 


The  Tomboy.  69 

field,  the  silk  skirts  swishing  audibly  from 
side  to  side. 

Poor  Lily!  It  was  hard  upon  her,  very 
hard,  to  be  possessor  of  an  incomparable 
father  like  the  doctor,  and  then  to  have  an- 
other girl,  a  perfect  outsider,  come  along 
and  insist  upon  going  snacks.  She  only 
wondered  that  Lily  bore  it  as  well  as  she  did. 
And,  speaking  of  fathers, — what  a  pity  that 
her  own  was  not  there  to  see  how  she  was 
beginning  to  profit  by  his  excellent  bring- 
ing-up.  He  would  certainly  have  had  to 
approve  of  her  at  last.  And  somehow  that 
reflection,  which  ought  only  to  have  con- 
firmed her  in  well-doing,  worked  just  the 
other  way  about,  and  in  a  flash  she  was  all 
tomboy  again. 

Lily  had  disappeared  in  a  hollow,  and  the 
general  public  seemed  to  be  represented 
for  the  moment  by  one  old  plough-horse, 
temporarily  out  of  business,  and  a  vociferous 
flock  of  crows.  Perceiving  which,  and  shak- 
ing her  head  in  a  characteristic  way  she 
had,  as  if  her  mane  of  hair  were  loose  and 
flying,  the  model  stepmother  caught  at  the 
chance  for  a  run. 

Then  off  came  the  scarlet  jacket  that 
the  doctor  thought  so  becoming,  up  went 


70  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

the  tie-back  skirt  to  her  very  boot-tops,  and 
away  went  Sophie  down  the  road.  Oh,  but 
it  was  good  to  run, — it  was  good!  As  she 
raced  along  the  road, — really  raced  this 
time, — the  swift  motion  going  to  her  head 
like  wine,  she  felt  herself  purged  of  alien 
virtues,  as  irresponsible  as  any  young  ani- 
mal, bounding  over  the  good  friendly  earth 
for  the  sheer  joy  of  it.  If  only  she  might 
run  like  this  forever!  If  only  she  need 
never  arrive  anywhere!  If  only 

She  had  rounded  the  great  rolling  pasture, 
and  as  she  approached  the  lower  gate,  she 
slackened  her  pace.  There  were  cattle,  as 
Lily  had  predicted,  scattered  about  the  field, 
grazing  quietly,  or  standing  here  and  there 
under  an  apple  tree,  switching  at  belated 
flies.  It  was  all  very  peaceful  and  rural,  save 
for  the  intensely  dramatic  setting  of  the 
autumn  foliage,  and  Sophie  smiled  to  think 
that  she  could  ever  have  imagined  herself 
afraid  of  an  innocuous  cow.  She  did  not 
know  much  about  real  life  when  she  thought 
that! 

And  there  was  Lily  now,  a  natural  se- 
quence in  her  train  of  thought.  As  she 
watched  the  sedate  figure,  appearing  at  the 
crest  of  the  slope,  she  only  hoped  that  there 


The  Tomboy.  71 

was  nothing  in  her  own  aspect  to  suggest 
that  she  had  been  guilty  of  anything  so  un- 
dignified as  a  run,  with  skirts  picked  up  and 
hat  on  the  back  of  her  head. 

And  still  Lily  came  sedately  on.  Already 
Sophie  could  hear  the  swish  of  silk  skirt 
and  overskirt.  She  would  never  have  ven- 
tured to  question  their  appropriateness  for  a 
cross-country  stroll, — so  had  the  day  of  the 
stepmother  waned, — but  she  was  glad  that 
she  herself  knew  the  comfort  of  jersey  and 
corduroy.  And  Lily,  giving  no  more  sign 
of  recognition  than  as  if  the  waiting  figure 
had  been  clad  in  a  garment  of  invisi- 
bility, came  sedately  on,  while  the  skirts 
swished  from  side  to  side,  and — What  was 
that? 

A  low  rumble  as  of  distant  thunder, — then 
louder,  and  louder  still.  Good  heavens! 
There  was  somebody  disapproving  of  those 
swishing  skirts  who  was  not  afraid  to  say 
so!  One  of  the  cows,  her  horns  lowered,— 
no,  no ! — a  cow  did  n't  do  that !  It  was  a 
bull !  And  look,  he  was  charging,  head  down, 
tail  up,  straight  across  the  field  at  the  un- 
conscious Lily! 

"Run,  Lily,  run!"  Sophie  screamed,  vault- 
ing over  the  bars,  and  tearing  across  the  field 


72  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

in  the  general  direction  of  the  bull,  who, 
fortunately,  had  yet  much  ground  to  cover. 
"Run!  Run!" 

And  Lily  gave  one  glance  over  her  shoulder, 
saw  the  awful  brute  bearing  down  upon  her, 
and  stood  rooted  to  the  ground,  stiff  with 
horror.  Run?  She  could  no  more  have 
run  than  she  could  have  flown! 

And  Sophie,  wildly  waving  her  scarlet 
jacket,  and  yelling  with  all  her  might, 
dashed  straight  for  the  bull.  Perplexed,  not 
to  say  annoyed,  he  halted  an  instant.  Which 
should  it  be?  That  mean-spirited  blue 
thing  just  in  his  path,  that  was  showing  no 
fight  at  all?  or  that  maddening  red  thing 
over  there,  flourishing  defiance  in  his  very 
eyes,  and  daring  him,  with  vociferous  insults, 
to  come  on?  With  a  blood-curdling  bel- 
low he  announced  his  choice,  and  as  Sophie 
turned  and  fled  before  him, — "Run,  Lily, 
run!"  she  found  breath  to  scream. 

Then  Lijy  looked  again,  and  the  horror 
lifted, — the  horror  that  was  paralyzing  her. 
But  in  its  place  came  another  horror  that 
lent  wings  to  her  feet ;  and,  espying  a  passing 
team,  she  picked  up  her  swishing  skirts, 
higher  than  Sophie's  had  ever  gone,  and  flew 
over  the  ground,  shrieking,  "Help!  Help!" 


The  Tomboy.  73 

But  in  her  heart  was  a  deadly  fear,  and  she 
did  not  dare  look  back. 

The  men  were  at  the  gate,  and  making 
her  a  clear  passage.  And  as  she  stumbled 
over  the  lowered  bars  aslant,  "Save  her, 
save  her!"  she  choked.  "Oh,  save  her!" 

Then  one  of  the  men  laughed.  Was  he 
mad?  Was  all  the  world  mad?  Or  was  she 
mad  herself? 

"I  reckon  she  don't  need  no  savin',"  he 
opined,  with  slow  deliberation  fitting  the 
bars  back  again, — for  he  was  himself  not 
over-anxious  for  an  encounter  with  a  bull  on 
the  rampage.  "Look,  Sissy;  she  's  up  in  the 
gallery,  'n'  he  's  doin'  the  bull-fight  act  for 
her,  all  by  himself.  Ain't  that  pretty,  now?  " 

Then  Lily  looked;  and  there  among  the 
higher  branches  of  a  low-spreading  apple 
tree,  sat  her  pattern  stepmother,  quite  at 
ease,  while  the  bull,  with  deep  growlings 
and  mutterings,  trampled  and  tore  the  offend- 
ing jacket  into  flinders. 

Such  was  the  bucolic  scene  that  met  the 
doctor's  startled  eyes  as  he  came  driving 
home  along  the  quiet  country  road,  discuss- 
ing congenital  errors  of  circulation  with  his 
professional  colleague. 


74  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

"It  was  really  great  fun,"  Sophie  de- 
clared, with  easy  nonchalance,  when,  the 
bull  having  been  subjugated  and  led  away, 
she  found  herself  at  liberty  to  resume  com- 
munication with  her  agitated  family.  "For 
I  had  my  eye  on  that  apple  tree  from  the 
start,  so  that  I  knew  there  was  n't  the  least 
danger. " 

This  with  a  tentative  glance  at  the  doctor, 
who  struck"  her  as  looking  not  quite  himself. 

"But  you  are  afraid  of  cows!"  Lily  stam- 
mered, still  rather  white  and  breathless. 
"You  said  you  were." 

"Yes;  but  you  never  heard  me  say  I  was 
afraid  of  a  bull!" 

With  which  gallant  disclaimer,  the  heroine 
of  the  hour  took  on  an  air  of  buoyant  un- 
regeneracy,  which  proved  so  reanimating 
to  the  doctor  that  he  was  able  to  observe, 
with  only  a  slightly  exaggerated  composure, 
that  the  tomboy  had  won  out  at  last. 

And  yet, — was  it  then  the  tomboy,  he 
asked  himself  that  same  evening,  when, 
coming  out  on  the  moonlit  piazza,  he  caught 
sight  of  two  girlish  figures  on  the  steps  over 
yonder,  leaning  close,  in  earnest  talk, — 
Sophie's  voice  low  and  caressing,  Lily's  sub- 
dued to  a  key  of  blissful  surrender.  Was  it 


The  Tomboy.  75 

indeed  the  tomboy  that  had  won  out?  Or 
was  it  that  other  Sophie, — the  Sophie  he 
had  seen  brooding  over  her  little  patient, 
mothering  him  so  tirelessly  through  the 
long  night-watches, — the  Sophie  whom  the 
doctor  had  made  such  a  point  of  not  having 
fallen  in  love  with? 

A  vagrant  whiff  of  cigar  smoke  betrayed 
his  presence,  and  instantly  the  two  were  on 
their  feet  and  coming  toward  him, — Lily 
a  bit  shamefaced  and  disposed  to  reticence. 
But  Sophie  could  brook  no  secrets  from  the 
doctor. 

As  they  came  up  to  him, — "Only  think," 
she  announced  cheerfully,  yet  with  a  just 
perceptible  vibration  of  feeling,  "Lily  says 
she  will  have  me  for  a  mother  after  all. 
And,  do  you  know," — the  shy  note  of  feeling 
hurrying  to  cover, — "I  didn't  have  to  offer 
myself,  either!" 

But  there  was  no  trace  of  banter  in  the 
doctor's  tone,  as  he  drew  Lily  to  him  and 
said,  with  a  look  that  Sophie  put  away  in  her 
heart  to  keep  there  forever,  "It  's  what  we  Ve 
been  in  want  of  all  our  life;  eh,  little  one?" 

And  at  the  word,  that  primal  and  essential 
three  which  Nature  in  her  wisdom  prefers 
above  all  others,  came  quietly  into  its  own. 


III. 

THE  DOWNFALL  OF  GEORGIANA. 

GEORGIANA  RICE,  daughter  of 
Anson  and  Emmeline  Pratt,  had 
been  married  some  fifteen  years, 
and  no  one  who  enjoyed  the  advantage 
of  her  acquaintance  could  have  failed  to 
note  that  she  had  the  situation  well  in 
hand.  Indeed,  the  passing  stranger,  had 
he  been  endowed  with  the  most  rudimen- 
tary perceptions,  might  have  been  trusted 
to  reach  the  same  conclusion.  Georgiana's 
countenance  was  set  in  firm,  reasonable 
lines;  no  evil  passions  had  pulled  it  out  of 
drawing,  neither  had  it  been  blurred  by 
any  least  laxity  of  temperament.  One 
saw  at  a  glance  that  this  forceful,  self- 
possessed  woman  was  complete  mistress  of 
herself  and  of  her  environment. 

Perhaps  one  reason  why  Georgiana   had 
turned   out   such   a   capable   manager   was 
76 


The  Downfall  of  Georgiana.  77 

that  her  mother  had  been  so  poor  a  one. 
Every  other  quality  had  Emmeline  Pratt 
possessed,  to  make  life  charming  for  her 
family, — good  taste,  good  temper,  good 
spirits, — but  she  had  never  had  the  ghost 
of  a  faculty  as  housekeeper.  Nor  had  she 
any  realizing  sense  of  the  importance  of  the 
function.  She  could  not  conceive  why  good 
Mother  Earth,  for  instance,  universally  es- 
teemed as  she  was  for  her  many  benefac- 
tions, should,  when  venturing  in  the  form 
of  desultory  particles  upon  surfaces  of 
man's  contrivance,  be  condemned  as  dust, 
and  regarded  with  inappeasable  animosity. 
Nor  did  it  seem  to  Emmeline  that  her  little 
daughter's  embroidered  frock  was  any  less 
a  thing  of  beauty,  because  a  too  impetuous 
firecracker  had  chanced  to  burn  a  hole  in 
the  flounce, — around  at  the  back  too,  where 
nobody  need  ever  see  it!  That  the  small 
Georgiana  herself,  aged  six,  was  unable  to 
take  her  mother's  view;  that  in  fact  she 
was  caught  making  an  earnest  though  futile 
effort  to  repair  the  damage  with  her  own 
tentative  little  fingers, — this  instance  of 
misguided  zeal  was  fairly  to  be  laid  at  her 
father's  door.  For  Anson  Pratt,  as  none 
could  deny,  was  nothing  more  nor  less  than 


78  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

a  born  housewife,  whom  a  caprice  of  Fate  had 
imprisoned  in  the  frame  of  a  man.  Small 
wonder  that  a  child  possessed  of  so  shining 
an  example  in  the  one  parent,  and  so  signal 
a  warning  in  the  other,  should  have  made 
out  to  steer  a  straight,  not  to  say  narrow, 
course.  Much  as  ever,  if  she  escaped  be- 
coming a  pattern  of  all  the  virtues, — a 
really  serious  handicap  in  this  queer  old 
world  of  ours. 

All  this  however  is  neither  here  nor  there, 
since  what  we  are  concerned  with  is  less 
the  origin  of  Georgiana's  qualities,  than 
their  effect, — upon  her  immediate  family, 
and  primarily  upon  that  good  man,  her 
husband.  For  be  it  known  that  well  as 
this  admirable  mother  loved  her  little  brood 
of  children,  her  husband  it  was  that  formed 
the  very  pivot  of  that  energetic,  unswerving 
activity  which  constituted  her  daily  life. 
That  David  should  be  well-fed,  well-clothed, 
well-housed,  that  his  children  (she  never 
thought  of  them  as  her  children,  in  that 
grasping  way  that  some  mothers  have) 
should  grow  up  a  credit  to  his  name,  in 
short  that  she,  Georgiana,  should  prove  in 
every  particular  a  model  wife, — such  was 
her  ruling  passion. 


The  Downfall  of  Georgiana.  70 

Yet  if  the  root  of  it  all  was  a  surpassing 
love  for  David,  this  was  something  so 
wrought  into  the  fibre  of  her  being  that  she 
did  not  give  it  very  much  thought.  Who 
ever  stops  to  consider  the  good  red  blood 
that  keeps  his  heart  going?  What  healthy 
person,  for  the  matter  of  that,  ever  stops 
to  consider  that  he  has  a  heart?  There  it 
is,  that  funny,  lop-sided  organ,  pumping 
away  for  dear  life, — literally  for  dear  life, — 
all  day  and  all  night,  and  there  at  the  cen- 
tre of  Georgiana's  ceaseless  activity  was  her 
love  for  David.  There  was  no  need  of  cod- 
dling it,  no  need  of  making  any  talk  about 
it.  There  it  was;  and  it  made  of  life  the 
entirely  satisfactory  thing  she  had  found  it 
ever  since  the  day  on  which  David  had 
mustered  courage  to  tell  her,  what  she  had 
been  perfectly  well  aware  of  for  a  month  of 
Sundays,  that  he  loved  her. 

But  Georgiana  was  not  like  her  cousin 
and  special  intimate,  Lucy  Enderby  (she 
that  was  a  Spencer),  who  was  always  bubbling 
over  with  wifely  enthusiasm. 

"Isn't  Frank  adorable?"  Lucy  had  ex- 
claimed, only  the  other  day,  apropos  of  a 
red  rose  she  was  wearing.  For  some  reason, 
known  only  to  themselves,  Frank  kept  her 


8o  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

supplied  with  just  that  kind  of  rose,  in 
season  and  out.  Such  lovers  as  those  two 
were,  after  eighteen  years  of  it! — for  Lucy 
had  married  when  she  was  still  in  her  teens. 

"I  'm  glad  you  find  him  so,"  Georgiana 
had  replied,  with  becoming  reserve.  "But 
you  know,  I  'm  not  one  of  the  adoring  kind." 

"But  you  adore  David;  now  you  know 
you  do,  Georgie  dear." 

"I  'm  very  much  attached  to  David,  of 
course.  But, — well,  you  know  I  'm  not 
an  emotional  person." 

And  to  her  credit  be  it  recorded  that 
there  was  no  assumption  of  superiority  in 
the  disclaimer.  It  was  as  if  she  had  said, — 
"My  eyes  are  gray,  you  know;  not  black, 
like  yours."  There  was  no  implication  of 
superiority  in  the  possession  of  gray  eyes 
— nor  of  black  ones  either,  as  far  as  that 
went.  She  was  very  much  attached  to 
David,  of  course,  but  he  had  never  struck 
her  as  being  adorable.  Indeed,  to  Geor- 
giana's  thinking,  the  term  smacked  of 
idolatry.  Her  affair  was  to  do  her  duty 
by  David,  and  no  nonsense  about  it. 

The  cousins  were  sitting  in  the  Rice 
family  library,  so  called  because  of  a  tall 
book-case  behind  the  glass  doors  of  which 


The  Downfall  of  Georgiana.  8 1 

housed  sets  of  the  classics  in  elegant  desue- 
tude. Yet  not  more  orderly  were  they  in 
their  seclusion  than  were  the  contents  of 
Georgiana's  work-basket  over  yonder,  in 
the  decorous  precincts  of  which  no  spool 
nor  roll  of  tape  was  ever  known  to  overstep 
its  appointed  inch  of  space;  where  the  very 
emery-bag,  though  fashioned  in  the  genial 
guise  of  a  strawberry,  had  been  taught  to 
mind  its  manners,  and  would  never  have 
thought  of  such  a  thing  as  lying  down  in 
company.  The  points  of  Georgiana's  scis- 
sors were  stuck  into  corks,  her  little  cake 
of  wax  dwelt  in  a  small  bag  lined  with  oiled- 
silk, — for  well  she  knew  the  susceptibility 
of  its  too  yielding  nature  to  contaminating 
influences.  Only  the  needle  and  thread  in 
immediate  use  were  enjoying  some  freedom 
of  action. 

"I  declare,"  Lucy  exclaimed,  in  admira- 
tion tinged  with  an  envy  which  no  playful- 
ness could  conceal,  "I  call  it  positively 
deceitful  to  darn  a  table-cloth  like  that,  so 
that  no  one  would  suspect  there  had  ever 
been  a  hole!  I  wonder  that  your  conscience 
allows  it." 

Lucy  was  a  pretty  woman,  a  trifle  faded 
perhaps,  but  only  the  dearer  for  that.  It  *s 


82  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

not  the  look  of  newness  that  we  prize  in  the 
things  we  love,  but  rather  that  blending 
and  softening  that  the  hand  of  Time  alone 
knows  the  secret  of. 

Georgiana  however  was  even  less  alive 
than  usual  to  subtleties  of  this  sort.  She 
had  something  on  her  mind  which  had  got 
to  be  got  off. 

"Lucy,"  she  broke  in,  without  the  least 
attempt  at  a  natural  transition  from  one 
subject  to  another.  "Lucy,  I  'm  told  that 
your  Richard  has  been  seen  smoking  a 
cigar." 

"Trust  him  for  that,"  was  the  tranquil 
rejoinder.  "It's  just  what  the  silly  boy 
does  it  for, — to  be  seen!" 

"But,  Lucy!  Don't  tell  me  that  you  are 
going  to  let  your  boys  contract  the  smoking 
habit!" 

There  was  condemnation  in  the  very 
phrase. 

"Oh,  but  that's  something  for  their 
father  to  decide. " 

"But  surely  you  would  n't  wish  them  to!" 

"I  don't  know  about  that.  I  think  I 
want  them  to  grow  up  just  as  much  like 
Frank  as  possible." 

Was  there  a  hint  of  stubbornness  in  the 


The  Downfall  of  Georgiana.  83 

movement  with  which  the  speaker  settled 
back  in  her  chair,  sending  its  mahogany 
framework  perilously  near  the  wall-paper? 
And  was  it  a  slight  nervousness  on  that 
account  which  sharpened  Georgiana' s  accent 
as  she  returned, — "I  suppose  if  Frank 
squinted,  you  would  n't  want  the  boys  to 
copy  that!'* 

"Oh,  but  Frank  could  never  squint!  His 
eyes  are  straight  as  a  trivet."  Lucy  had  a 
disconcerting  way  of  evading  a  point  by 
cutting  round  the  corner! 

"Well,  Lucy,  I  must  say  that  I  'm  sur- 
prised at  you ! ' '  And  if  the  statement  needed 
confirmation,  it  was  not  far  to  seek  in  the 
momentarily  suspended  needle- work.  "I  'm 
not  disputing  Frank's  good  qualities.  Every 
one  knows  that  he  is  an  excellent  husband, 
and  a  clever  architect,  and  all  that," — "all 
that"  might  have  stood  for  some  such  quite 
extraneous  accomplishment  as  piano-playing, 
or  agility  on  the  flying  trapeze, — "but  you 
must  admit  that  smoking  is  a  vice." 

"Indeed,  but  I  'm  not  admitting  any- 
thing of  the  kind.  I  shouldn't  think  it 
polite  to  David!"  This  with  a  touch  of 
gentle  malice. 

"David  only  smokes  one  cigar  a  day," 


84  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

Georgiana  affirmed,  loftily, — for  here  was 
something  she  was  really  conceited  about. 
"And  he  never  scatters  ashes  on  the  floor." 

"Seems  to  me, "  Lucy  ventured,  generously 
ignoring  the  little  thrust, — for  Frank  did 
have  an  absent  way  of  flicking  the  ash  off 
into  space,  with  what  his  wife  considered 
a  quite  inimitable  movement  of  the  little 
finger — "seems  to  me  there  must  have  been 
some  adoring  on  foot  the  time  you  and 
David  made  that  compromise.  It  was  such 
a  sacrifice  to  you  both.'1 

"It  was  no  sacrifice  to  David.  He  agreed 
to  the  arrangement  only  too  willingly, 
because  he  recognized  the  wisdom  of  it. 
And  I  will  say  that  he  has  carried  it  out 
to  the  letter." 

"He  smokes  half  a  one  on  his  way  to 
town,  does  n't  he?-— and  the  other  half  in 
the  evening?" 

"Yes;  excepting  when  he  forgets  himself 
and  finishes  it  in  the  morning." 

"But  doesn't  he  miss  it  dreadfully  after 
supper?"  Lucy  persisted,  as  she  fastened 
her  tippet  and  rose  to  depart. 

"Yes,  he  does  get  pretty  fidgety,  I  must 
admit.  But  it  's  better  than  having  his 
constitution  undermined,  and  his  manners 


The  Downfall  of  Georgiana.  85 

demoralized."  And  as  the  two  friendly 
disputants  parted  company,  it  is  fair  to 
assume  that  each  was  more  firmly  entrenched 
than  ever  in  her  own  position. 

How  thankful  Georgiana  was  that  she  had 
had  the  foresight  and  the  resolution  to 
exact  that  promise  of  David  at  the  very 
outset.  She  often  thought  with  pride  of  his 
ready  acquiescence;  a  quite  pardonable 
pride,  too,  since  she  was  conscious  of  having 
acted  solely  for  David's  best  interests.  If 
she  had  been  glad  to  concede  that  one  cigar 
a  day, — for  it  would  be  no  exaggeration  to 
state  that  she  was  even  then  very  much 
attached  to  David, — she  had  not  done  so 
until  assured  on  the  highest  authority  that 
smoking  was  injurious  only  when  carried 
to  excess.  And  she  had  so  expressed  herself 
that  she  felt  that  no  reasonable  man  could 
have  refused  her;  little  dreaming  that  the 
success  of  her  plea  depended  solely  upon 
the  well-established  truth  that  a  man  in 
David's  position  never  is  reasonable. 

"I  don't  make  this  a  condition,  David," 
she  had  said.  "I  only  ask  it  as  a  favor." 

And  David,  who  in  his  then  state  of  mind 
would  cheerfully  have  renounced  the  use  of 
drinking  water,  or  have  foregone  his  pinch 


86  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

of  harmless,  necessary  salt  for  the  term  of 
his  natural  life,  had  said, — "Yes,  dearest,  I 
promise." 

It  is  safe  to  opine  that  Georgiana  would 
have  been  very  much  put  about,  had  she 
guessed  that  David  was  at  the  moment 
far  more  mindful  of  the  hue  and  texture 
of  that  cheek  which  his  rapturous  lips  had 
touched  for  the  first  time,  than  of  the  fateful 
pledge  so  lightly  given. 

Having  then  espoused  his  best  good 
before  ever  she  had  espoused  the  man  him- 
self, Georgiana  proceeded  to  fulfil  her 
marital  obligations  with  a  completeness  and 
efficiency  which  was  the  admiration  of  all 
beholders.  No  house  in  Dunbridge  was 
better  kept  than  hers,  no  husband  and 
children  in  all  the  community  more  wisely 
and  devotedly  cared  for.  Truly  David 
Rice  had  every  reason  to  consider  himself 
a  fortunate  man. 

Now  David  was  not  only  grateful  for  the 
excellent  wife  that  had  been  accorded  him, 
but  as  time  went  by  he  grew  more  and  more 
instant  in  telling  himself  how  grateful  he  ought 
to  be;  a  circumstance  which,  had  he  been  of 
an  introspective  turn,  might  have  led  him 
to  question  the  spontaneity  of  the  sentiment. 


The  Downfall  of  Georgiana.  87 

He  was  a  kind,  shy  man,  just  turned 
forty,  who  had  that  in  common  with  his 
more  aggressive  helpmeet,  that  his  chief  aim 
in  life  was  to  do  his  duty  by  his  family. 
Politics  did  not  interest  him,  nor  theology, 
nor  modern  science,  then  in  its  adolescence; 
while  what  is  known  as  conviviality  was 
as  foreign  to  his  retiring  nature  as  battle, 
murder,  and  sudden  death. 

He  was  in  the  real-estate  line,  and  such 
was  his  prowess  in  the  matter  of  leases, 
mortgages,  debentures,  and  what  not,  and 
such  his  reputation  for  scrupulous  honesty, 
that  much  business  came  his  way,  first  and 
last,  and  many  a  bill-board,  on  many  a 
vacant  lot,  bore  the  somewhat  startling 
legend: 

FOR  SALE 

AS  A  WHOLE  OR  IN  PARTS 
DAVID  RICE. 

If  the  ambiguous  wording  of  the  announce- 
ment caused  such  of  the  ungodly  as  were 
blessed  with  a  sense  of  humor  to  chuckle 
furtively,  we  may  be  sure  that  Georgiana 
was  no  such  purist  in  her  mother  tongue 
as  to  take  exception  to  those  signs,  which 
were  really  the  pride  of  her  heart.  Indeed 


88  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

she  was  as  unmoved  by  the  gruesome  sug- 
gestion that  David  held  himself  ready  to 
dispose  of  his  own  component  parts  under 
a  deed  of  sale,  as  by  the  cold-blooded  notice, 
"Lobsters:  alive  or  boiled,"  which  at  that 
period  decorated  one  of  the  palings  of  the 
long  bridge. 

On  a  day  when  the  true  purport  of  those 
equivocal  bill-boards  had  been  triumphantly 
demonstrated, — and  few  working  days  went 
by  that  David  had  not  carried  through 
some  profitable  transaction  in  his  own  line 
of  business, — he  would  come  home  to  his 
well-ordered  house,  his  well-behaved  chil- 
dren, his  handsome,  efficient  wife,  and  tell 
himself  that  he  was  a  fortunate  man. 

Now  it  chanced  that  on  a  certain  afternoon 
in  early  spring  Georgiana  might  have  been 
seen  in  the  full  exercise  of  her  housewifely 
authority,  having  the  dining-room  set  to 
rights  after  a  severe  dispensation  of  spring- 
cleaning  and  carpet-turning.  Mrs.  Lufkin, 
her  mouth  full  of  tacks,  was  still  on  her 
knees,  grubbing  after  possible  derelicts, 
cook  and  housemaid  were  shoving  ponderous 
pieces  of  black- walnut  about,  while  Georgiana 
kept  a  watchful  eye  upon  the  proceedings,  lest 
a  stray  nail-head  or  scrap  of  thread  should 


Georgiana 
In  the  full  exercise  of  her  housewifely  authority. 


'.'    . 

•    ' 


The  Downfall  of  Georgiana.  89 

elude  Mrs.  Lufkin,  or  lest  the  middle  of  the 
sideboard  should  get  pushed  a  quarter  of  an 
inch  beyond  the  middle  of  Grandma  Rice's 
portrait, — that  portrait  which  Robert  Pratt, 
Georgiana's  irreverent  brother,  had  accused 
of  having  been  painted  with  a  flat-iron. 
Of  course,  as  everybody  knows,  you  can't 
paint  an  oil-portrait  with  a  flat-iron;  yet 
it  must  be  admitted  that  Grandma's  hand, 
with  its  incredibly  tapering  fingers,  certainly 
did  have  the  appearance  of  pie-paste  at  the 
rolling-pin  stage  of  its  development. 

Just  as  the  six-barrelled,  silver-plated 
castor,  which  passed  its  leisure  hours  in  the 
precise  centre  of  the  top  shelf,  had  achieved 
a  position  exactly  under  Grandma's  wedding- 
ring, — the  fingers,  by  the  way,  could  not 
have  been  quite  as  tapering  as  they  appeared, 
for  although  they  sloped  down  with  studied 
carelessness  that  ring  had  stayed  on  for 
more  than  half  a  century, — the  sound  of 
David's  latch-key  sent  an  electric  thrill 
through  Georgiana's  veins.  Her  heart  had 
been  set  upon  getting  the  job  done  before 
David  got  home,  and  done  it  was;  so  that, 
ambition  being  thus  appeased,  the  heart  in 
question  found  itself  free  to  thrill  as  elec- 
trically as  it  would. 


90  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

'  "Well,  David,"  was  the  cheerful  greeting, 
as  she  met  him  in  the  front  hall,  "the 
carpet's  down,  and  you  will  be  glad  to 
know  that  we  are  to  have  supper  in  the 
dining-room.  We  Ve  got  a  power  of  work 
done  since  morning,  Mrs.  Lufkin  and  I." 

"I'll  warrant  you  have,"  he  answered, 
with  a  somewhat  forced  enthusiasm;  for 
David  was  not  feeling  quite  himself  this 
evening.  The  worst  of  Georgiana  was  that 
you  never  dared  stand  out  against  her. 
When  she  demanded  admiration, — not  for 
herself,  dear  no!  but  for  a  good  job  done, — 
you  trumped  it  up  at  any  cost,  even  at  that 
of  scrupulous  veracity. 

"Yes,"  she  reiterated,  briskly.  "We  Ve 
got  that  carpet  all  turned  and  down.  It  's 
good  as  new." 

"Well,  I  call  that  pretty  smart,"  was 
David's  dutiful  rejoinder,  as  he  made  for  the 
staircase. 

"Stop  a  minute,  David.  Come  and  look 
at  it  before  the  daylight  goes." 

It  was  a  good  firm  kidderminster,  which 
had  worn  like  iron.  Being  however  but  a 
mortal  fabric  after  all,  the  exposed  side  of 
it  had  succumbed  to  adversity  in  the  shape 
of  sundry  stains  and  fadings-out  which 


The  Downfall  of  Georgiana.  91 

had  long  rendered  it  an  eyesore  to  the 
mistress. 

"There!"  was  Georgiana's  confident  chal- 
lenge. "Wouldn't  you  say  that  was  a 
brand  new  carpet?" 

"Yes,  I  should,"  David  testified,  truth- 
fully. "I  never  should  know  it  for  the  same 
carpet." 

Nor  would  any  one  else  have  surmised 
its  identity.  From  a  dull  red  surface,  with 
a  sprangly  pattern  of  unobtrusive  yellow, 
it  had  become  an  uncompromising  yellow, 
sparsely  decorated  with  red ;  from  an  inoffen- 
sive groundwork  which  no  one  ever  noticed, 
it  had  turned  (in  more  senses  that  one)  into 
a  staring  apparition  that  hit  the  eye,  square 
and  relentless  as  a  sand-storm. 

David  could  remember  how  they  had 
chosen  that  carpet  together,  he  and  Geor- 
giana, fifteen  years  ago, — the  air  of  com- 
petency with  which  his  young  wife  had 
examined  the  warp  and  the  woof  of  it, 
testing  its  quality,  appraising  its  value. 
He  could  even  recall  the  pungent  odor  of 
the  dye,  as  the  big  roll  let  go  some  yards  of 
itself,  with  a  view  to  compelling  admiration. 
Georgiana's  judgment  had  been  justified 
in  this  as  in  other  instances.  David  had 


92  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

never  had  any  fault  to  find  with  the  carpet, 
—nor  with  Georgiana  either,  as  he  would 
have  assured  himself,  had  he  been  capable 
of  raising  such  a  question.  All  the  more 
was  this  revelation  of  the  under  side  of  that 
particular  carpet  a  distinct  shock.  It  was 
like  discovering  concealed  hostility  in  a 
familiar  friend ;  one  could  n't  tell  what  might 
happen  next. 

He  turned  away,  with  rather  a  spiritless 
air,  which  his  wife  failed  to  observe.  It  was 
not  the  first  time  that  she  had  been  too 
much  occupied  in  making  David  comfortable, 
to  perceive  how  uncomfortable  he  really 
was.  On  this  occasion  she  detached  her 
mind  from  the  matter  in  hand  long  enough 
to  call  out, — "  Don't  forget  to  brush  your 
coat,  David!" — but  not  long  enough  to 
notice  that  David  did  not  answer.  And 
David  mounted  the  stairs  with  dragging 
steps,  wishing  that  he  might  be  let  off  this 
once. 

Early  in  their  married  life  this  fortunate 
husband  had  learned  that  his  wife  could 
not  understand  a  man  putting  on  his  coat 
without  brushing  it;  and  although  there  was 
almost  always  something  he  would  rather 
do  than  brush  his  coat,  he  had  a  very  well- 


The  Downfall  of  Georgiana.  93 

defined  impression  that  it  would  be  quite 
too  dreadful  to  be  the  sort  of  man  Georgiana 
could  not  understand. 

As  he  stood,  a  few  minutes  later,  in  the 
waning  light,  and  feebly  plied  a  stiff  whisk- 
broom  of  Georgiana's  providing,  he  was 
conscious  of  a  sickly  longing,  for  what,  he 
could  not  have  said.  Not  for  that  cigar 
which  he  had  improvidently  smoked  in 
the  morning — he  felt  curiously  indifferent 
about  that;  not  for  the  pleasant  red  carpet 
whose  face  he  was  never  to  see  again;  not 
even  for  the  wife  of  his  youth,  who  had 
made  him  forget  carpets  and  eschew  cigars; 
for,  bless  you,  she  had  n't  changed  a  mite, 
in  all  these  years.  Yes,  she  was  the  same 
Georgiana,  precisely  the  same,  that  he  had 
fallen  in  love  with  such  ages  and  ages  ago. 
A  good  wife  she  had  been  to  him,  if  she  had 
made  him  toe  the  mark  a  bit.  And  at  this 
point,  the  stiff  whisk -broom  slipped  from 
his  ringers,  and  he  became  aware  that  he 
could  not  for  the  life  of  him  have  stooped 
to  pick  it  up.  Yes,  a  good  wife  Georgiana 
had  been  to  him.  Should  he  ever  see  her 
again,  he  wondered,  vaguely,  as  he  staggered 
across  the  room  to  the  big  four-poster, 
trailing  the  coat  by  one  sleeve  behind  him. 


94  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

The  bed  looked  inviting;  he  wished  he  could 
remember  how  you  set  about  it  to  get 
aboard.  Oh,  yes;  this  way.  And,  with  a 
sudden  lurch,  he  tumbled  over  upon  the 
immaculate  counterpane,  which  had  never 
before  been  so  profaned,  and  lay  there 
shivering,  and  telling  himself  that  Georgiana 
was  a  good  wife. 

And  when  the  last  tack  had  been  ap- 
parently eaten  by  Mrs.  Lufkin,  and  the 
last  dining-room  chair  had  found  its  exact 
position  in  the  scheme  of  the  universe; 
when  the  children  had  been  gathered  in 
from  play,  and  tidied  up, — not  without 
careful  scrutiny  of  that  elusive  spot  in 
behind  the  ears,  which  no  child  ever  volun- 
tarily scrubbed, — Georgiana,  all  unprepared 
for  the  shock  which  awaited  her,  went  to 
her  own  room  to  change  her  dress. 

On  the  door-sill  she  halted,  rigid  with 
horror,  at  the  sight,  not,  alas!  of  her  pros- 
trate lord,  but  of  her  desecrated  counterpane. 

"  David ! "  she  cried.     "  Your  boots ! " 

That  purely  automatic  protest  of  the 
outraged  housekeeper  was  scarcely  uttered, 
however,  than  she  had  grasped  the  situation. 
There  lay  David,  his  eyes  closed,  shivering 
miserably,  but  still  clinging  to  the  sleeve 


The  Downfall  of  Georgiana.  95 

of  the  coat,  which  hung  limply  over  the  side 
of  the  bed,  while  on  the  floor  a  few  feet  away 
lay  the  whisk -broom,  mute  witness  to  the 
effort  he  had  made  in  his  extremity  to  do 
her  behests. 

Georgiana' s  heart  smote  her  at  the  sight, 
but  she  did  not  flinch.  Now,  if  ever,  there 
must  be  no  weakening.  David  was  ill, 
apparently  very  ill;  he  must  be  got  into 
bed.  Bobby  must  run  for  the  doctor. 
Maggie  must  fetch  the  hot-water  bottle. 
Cook  must  have  supper  served  for  the  chil- 
dren; nurse  must  come  down  and  keep  the 
younger  ones  quiet.  And  John,  man-of- 
all-work,  must  n't  go  home  for  the  night 
until  they  made  sure  there  was  nothing  the 
doctor  wished  him  to  do.  It  was  like  the 
winding  of  a  well-regulated  clock.  A  turn 
of  the  key,  which  was  Georgiana's  brain,  and 
all  the  wheels  were  running  accurately,  and 
the  hands  pointing  to — what?  Was  it  high 
noon  with  poor  David,  as  it  ought  by  good 
rights  to  be?  Or  did  that  shadow  on  the 
dial  mean  the  close  of  such  brief  day  as  is 
the  life  of  man? 

Not  that  Georgiana  could  have  put  it 
fancifully,  like  that.  It  was  grim  reality  to 
her.  David  was  ill,  ill  for  the  first  time  in 


96  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

his  life.  David  might  die.  But  she  held 
it  at  arm's  length,  that  thought;  not  an  inch 
would  she  yield  to  its  importunity.  For 
Georgiana  was  first  of  all  mistress,  not  only 
of  her  own  actions,  but  of  her  own  emotions 
as  well. 

The  sick  man  roused  sufficiently  to  be 
got  into  bed  before  the  doctor  arrived,  but 
almost  instantly  he  sank  back  into  that 
half-torpor  which  had  overpowered  him 
at  the  outset.  And  so  the  doctor  found 
him. 

The  malady  was  pronounced  to  be  an 
attack  of  influenza,  a  virulent  form  of  which 
was  going  the  rounds;  "la  grippe"  they 
called  it  over  in  France.  A  chancy  customer 
at  best;  never  any  telling  what  turn  it  might 
take.  The  stupor  might  last  all  night,  or 
high  fever  might  set  in.  There  would  no 
doubt  be  pains  in  the  back  and  in  the  bones. 
The  patient  might  be  in  for  a  pretty  tough 
siege  of  it,  or  the  thing  might  peter  out  in 
a  few  hours  into  a  heavy  cold  in  the  head. 
Mrs.  Rice  would  n't  have  a  nurse?  Very 
well,  then.  It  would  be  hard  to  find  her 
own  match  in  that  line.  Better  lie  down 
though,  on  the  couch  over  yonder,  when  she 
got  the  chance.  She  had  probably  a  wakeful 


The  Downfall  of  Georgiana.  97 

night  before  her.  And  now,  good-night, 
good-night.  And  the  doctor  was  off. 

Well,  Georgiana  told  herself,  there  was 
nothing  the  matter  with  David  after  all 
but  influenza,  and  thank  heaven  there  was 
no  need  of  calling  it  by  the  ghastly  name 
those  excitable  Frenchmen  scared  them- 
selves with. 

She  sat  beside  her  patient,  her  fingers 
at  his  wrist,  noting  each  smallest  variation 
in  the  pulse,  until  she  heard  the  children  on 
their  way  to  bed.  Upon  which  she  stepped 
to  the  chamber  door  and  kissed  them  good- 
night, charging  them  to  say  their  prayers  to 
nurse, — who,  it  was  to  be  hoped,  showed 
herself  graciously  inclined  to  "keep"  their 
little  souls,  and  to  bless  "pupper"  and 
"mummer,"  and  other  beneficiaries  enu- 
merated with  childish  explicitness. 

Then,  when  a  bowl  of  ice,  cracked  in 
carefully  graduated  sizes,  had  been  prepared, 
and  the  spirit  lamp  made  ready;  when  John 
had  fetched  the  prescription,  when  the  entry 
lights  were  turned  down,  and  all  the  house- 
hold presumably  wrapped  in  that  slumber 
which  the  responsible  head  must  so  fre- 
quently forego,  Georgiana  permitted  herself 
to  think  of  her  own  comfort. 


98  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

Taking  off  her  gown,  and  slipping  into  a 
fresh  white  dressing-sack,  she  proceeded 
to  brush  out  her  hair,  which  was  long  and 
abundant,  and  inclined  to  curl.  She  always 
brushed  it  very  thoroughly,  and  never 
without  annoyance  at  its  tendency  to  wind 
itself  around  the  brush,  or  about  her  dexter- 
ous fingers.  Under  certain  conditions  of 
the  barometer  those  locks  had  to  be  sternly 
coerced,  before  they  would  lie  flat,  as  w^ell- 
conducted  hair  ought  to  do.  She  was  about 
to  subject  them  to  severely  repressive 
measures,  when  a  slight  movement  over 
in  the  great  four-poster  gave  her  pause. 
Swiftly  she  crossed  the  room,  and  stood 
beside  the  patient,  wratching  for  a  sign. 

He  did  not  move  again  at  once,  but  she 
was  quick  to  perceive  that  the  stupor  was 
yielding.  She  seated  herself  beside  the 
bed,  quietly  alert. 

The  house  was  so  still  that  David's  deep, 
regular  breathing  sounded  fairly  stertorous. 
The  tinkle  of  a  distant  horse-car  seemed  as 
detached  and  inconsequent  as  a  street-cry 
intruding  upon  a  cathedral  service.  For, 
to  Georgiana,  upborne  on  the  very  flood- 
tide  of  wifely  devotion,  the  whole  great 
dreaming,  waking,  revelling,  suffering  world 


The  Downfall  of  Georgiana.  99 

outside  was  but  as  the  shingles  on  the  beach, 
the  mists  on  the  far  horizon.  How  thankful 
she  was  that  this  privilege  of  service  was  all 
hers;  that  she,  and  she  alone,  held  David's 
welfare  in  the  hollow  of  her  hand!  Never 
had  she  felt  more  adequate,  more  truly 
equal  to  an  emergency. 

As  she  sat  there,  wrapped  in  the  conscious- 
ness of  her  high  mission,  David  moved  again, 
and  instantly  she  was  all  attention. 

The  room  was  mostly  in  shadow.  A 
single  gas-jet  illumined  the  white  figure  of 
the  watcher,  the  strenuous,  capable  face, 
the  billowing  hair,  that  was  making  the 
most  of  its  little  holiday. 

Suddenly  David  opened  his  eyes,  which 
looked  unnaturally  large.  Was  it  because 
the  outline  of  the  face  merged  into  the  cir- 
cumambient tract  of  pillow?  Or  was  it 
that  some  sentiment  of  wonder  or  admira- 
tion had  set  them  wider  open  than  usual? 
Presently  he  spoke,  in  a  low,  awestruck 
tone. 

"I  see,*'  he  murmured.  "I  see;  you  are 
an  angel." 

This  tribute,  though  superficially  flatter- 
ing, smacked  too  much  of  adulation  to  be 
altogether  pleasing  to  its  object. 


ioo  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

"There,  there,  David,"  she  admonished. 
"You'd  better  not  talk."  And  as  she 
leaned  toward  him,  her  hair  fell  over  on 
either  side  of  her  face.  She  essayed  to 
gather  it  back,  but 

"No,"  he  begged.  "Leave  it  be.  Leave 
it  be."  Then,  with  a  remote,  puzzled 
speculation  in  his  eye, — "My  wife  had  hair 
like  that." 

"Your  wife? "  she  echoed.  "Why,  David ! 
Don't  you  know  me?  It 's  I, — Georgiana." 

"Yes,"  he  concurred,  gravely.  "Geor- 
giana. That  was  her  name.  A  good  wo- 
man. Mind  you,  I  'm  not  finding  any 
fault  with  Georgiana." 

Finding  fault  with  her?  She  should  rather 
think  not!  When  had  he  ever  found  fault 
with  her?  What  occasion  had  she  ever 
given  him?  And,  patiently  disengaging  the 
errant  locks,  which  he  had  begun  fingering, 
dubiously,  she  essayed  again  to  gather  them 
up.  Whereupon  he  broke  out  with — "Let 
that  be;  let  that  be!  Georgiana  was  al- 
ways sticking  it  up,  so  you  could  n't  half 
see  it!" 

"Do  you  like  it  better  down?"  she  asked, 
with  unwonted  indulgence. 

"Of  course  I  do!"     Adding,  irritably,— 


The  Downfall  of  Georgiana.          101 

"Georgiana  could  never  let  well  enough 
alone." 

Troubled  and  perplexed,  she  let  her  hair 
loose  again. 

"There,  David,"  she  said,  soothingly. 
"I  am  Georgiana,  and  I  am  letting  my  hair 
be,  just  the  way  you  like  it.  But," — and 
here  spoke  the  responsible  sick-nurse, — 
"you  must  keep  your  arms  covered  up,  or 
you  '11  take  cold." 

The  familiar  note  of  authority  seemed  to 
disquiet  him. 

"No,"  he  protested,  anxiously.  "You  're 
not  Georgiana.  You  're  only  trying  to 
bulldoze  me!" 

"To  bulldoze  you?  David!  What  do 
you  mean?" 

An  ominous  misgiving  had  assailed  her, 
and  no  wonder;  for  that  ugly  word,  as 
Georgiana  knew  it,  stood  for  nothing  short 
of  the  intimidation  of  negro  voters  in  the 
South! 

"I  don't  want  to  be  made  to  do  things," 
he  declared.  "I  've  had  enough  of  it ! " 

"But,  David,"  she  remonstrated,  in  keen 
distress.  "I  never  ask  you  to  do  anything 
that  is  not  for  your  best  good." 

"There!     Now  you  are  talking  just  like 


IO2  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

Georgiana,"  he  fretted.  "I  wish  you'd 
go  away." 

"And  you  wouldn't  want  Georgiana 
here,  beside  you, — now,  when  you  are  ill?" 
There  was  a  sharp  physical  pain  at  her 
heart,  as  she  held  her  breath  for  the 
answer. 

"No, "  he  insisted,  stubbornly.  "I  want 
a  little  peace." 

And  at  the  word,  the  very  edifice  of  her 
life,  sapped  already  by  that  insidious  mis- 
giving, came  tumbling  about  her  ears. 

He  wanted  a  little  peace, — he  did  n't  want 
Georgiana.  It  was  impossible  to  misappre- 
hend the  animus  of  his  speech.  With  all 
due  allowance  for  fever,  for  delirium,  it  was 
an  arraignment,  and  Georgiana  did  not  for 
a  moment  deceive  herself. 

David  had  subsided  again;  his  eyes  were 
closed,  his  breath  came  evenly,  but  the 
fever  was  still  upon  him. 

Quietly,  efficiently,  she  tended  him.  She 
gave  him  his  drops,  she  bathed  his  brow; 
from  time  to  time  she  refilled  the  hot-water 
bottle,  or  shifted  the  pillows,  to  give  him 
ease.  But  all  the  while  her  lips  were  set 
in  a  thin,  straight  line  of  endurance,  and 
those  fine  brows  of  hers,  drawn  to  a  poignant 


The  Downfall  of  Georgiana.  103 

angle,  made  dark  the  eyes,  where  gleamed 
a  really  tragic  light. 

And  when  she  had  exhausted  her  resources, 
and  David  seemed  at  last  to  be  resting 
comfortably,  she  arose,  and,  fetching  a 
ribbon,  tied  the  rebellious  hair  back,  just 
enough  to  keep  it  out  of  her  eyes,  but  not 
enough  to  trouble  David.  And  then  she 
returned  to  her  post,  and  sat  there,  seeking 
to  measure  the  wreckage  of  her  house  of  life. 

A  less  intelligent  woman  than  Georgiana 
would  not  have  been  so  quick  to  grasp  the 
true  significance  of  David's  random  in- 
sinuations. A  woman  of  conscience  less 
alert  than  hers  would  have  repudiated  them 
altogether.  But  Georgiana  not  only  under- 
stood this  impeachment  of  her  conduct, 
but  unerringly  she  perceived  the  justice 
of  it.  Strong,  self-reliant,  autocratic,  too 
often  had  she  appealed  to  justice  as  against 
her  fellow-sinners,  not  to  recognize  its  coun- 
tenance when  turned  upon  her  own  short- 
comings. 

''You're  not  Georgiana.  You're  only 
trying  to  bulldoze  me."  This  was  what 
her  fifteen  years  of  confident  endeavor  had 
come  to;  this  was  the  upshot  of  her  tire- 
less devotion, — tireless  but,  alas,  too,  too 


IO4  Later  Pratt  Portraits 

despotic.  "I  Vehad  enough  of  it.  I  want 
a  little  peace." 

A  more  violent  denunciation  would  have 
been  far  less  crushing.  It  was  the  perfect 
naturalness,  the  homely  truth,  of  David's 
phraseology,  that  carried  conviction.  She 
had  not  made  him  comfortable,  she  had  not 
made  him  happy.  It  had  all  been  a  sicken- 
ing failure. 

"Georgiana  could  never  let  well  enough 
alone. " 

Yes,  she  had  bulldozed  him,  she  had  tyr- 
annized over  him,  though  always  for  his 
best  good  as  she  understood  it.  Without 
a  qualm  she  had  seen  him  " fidget"  for 
that  second  cigar  which  she  had  pledged 
him  to  forego;  like  the  veriest  marplot  she 
had  frowned  upon  such  small  lapses  of 
conduct  as  conflicted  with  her  own  ideas  of 
propriety.  No  genial  disregard  of  meal- 
hours  had  there  ever  been  for  David,  no 
romping  with  the  children  beyond  limits  set, 
of  time,  of  place,  of  decorum ;  no  dozing  over 
his  paper  into  the  small-hours,  and  creeping 
up  to  bed,  his  heart  in  his  mouth,  like  any 
dissipated  young  blade.  What  coercion  she 
had  practised  in  the  matter  of  muddy  boots, 
of  indiscreet  neckties,  of  sensational  litera- 


The  Downfall  of  Georgiana.          105 

ture!  The  works  of  Mrs.  Southworth  and 
her  school  had  a  fatal  fascination  for  David. 

With  few  words  her  ascendency  had  been 
established,  for  Georgiana  was  no  termagant. 
A  look,  an  inflection  of  the  voice,  had  sufficed. 
But  in  all  those  hard  and  fast  ordinances  of 
hers,  no  slightest  allowance  had  been  made 
for  differences  of  temperament,  for  differ- 
ences even  of  conviction.  Unwittingly,  per- 
haps, she  had  played  upon  the  too  pliable 
nature,  the  too  sensitive  conscience  of  a 
good  man,  and  held  him  subject  to  her 
arbitrary  will.  That  she  had  not  forfeited  his 
allegiance,  that  his  loyalty  had  never  swerved 
was  no  credit  to  her.  It  was  in  the  nature 
of  the  man  himself,  the  quiet,  unpretentious 
man,  who  would  have  given  his  heart's 
blood  in  her  defence,  but  who  would  not 
lift  a  finger  to  defend  himself.  Her  rights 
had  been  secure  in  his  keeping,  but  never 
had  he  deemed  his  own  rights  worth  asserting. 

As  the  night  wore  on,  and  Georgiana 
kept  her  place  beside  the  bed,  ministering 
from  time  to  time  to  the  patient's  needs, 
marking  every  least  change  in  his  aspect  or 
condition,  she  felt  no  doubt  whatever  of 
his  ultimate  recovery,  of  her  own  ability 
to  pull  him  through.  All  the  rest  had  been 


io6  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

a  mistake,  a  lamentable,  an  egregious  mis- 
take. But  here,  in  her  battle  with  the 
enemy,  she  was  in  her  full  rights,  and  never 
for  a  moment  did  she  doubt  a  triumphant 
issue. 

The  little  flame  of  fever  had  quickly 
burned  itself  out;  only  the  ashes  of  it  rested 
upon  him,  holding  him  in  a  stupor  which  was 
not  really  sleep.  Then,  toward  morning,  a 
change  came,  a  change  for  the  better,  and 
Georgiana  perceived  that  it  was  to  be  a 
light  case  after  all.  It  was  not  to  be  granted 
her  to  play  the  providence,  here,  where  she 
had  so  long  played  the  petty  tyrant.  Well, 
so  much  the  better.  That  was  the  lesson 
of  those  bitter  hours  of  self -revelation. 
She  must  abdicate,  once  for  all,  her  role 
of  special  providence ;  she  must  learn,  though 
at  this  late  day,  to  live  and  let  live. 

And  lo,  at  this  very  characteristic  stirring 
of  practical  good  sense,  the  nightmare  of 
remorse  lifted  a  bit,  and,  in  the  turn  of  a 
hand,  Georgiana  was  herself  again,  mistress 
once  more  of  the  situation,  and  of  her  own 
initiative. 

With  reviving  courage,  if  in  a  profoundly 
chastened  spirit,  she  watched  the  dawning 
of  a  new  day,  of  a  day  in  which  she  was  to 


The  Downfall  of  Georgiana.          107 

have  another  chance.  Ah,  but  she  would 
make  David  happy,  yet;  she  would  win 
him  over  to  peace  and  content,  in  his  own 
lot,  at  least.  Whether  he  would  ever  again 
be  content  with  her,  was  something  she  did 
not  dare  speculate  about.  But,  for  him  at 
any  rate,  there  should  be  comfort, — his  own 
kind  of  comfort,  not  hers.  What  did  it 
matter  how  she  fared? 

Verily,  David  Rice  had  spoken  sober 
truth,  even  in  his  delirium,  when  he  called 
Georgiana  a  good  woman. 

Just  at  sunrise,  David  opened  his  eyes, 
and  lay  there  gazing  at  her  with  full  in- 
telligence. 

"Why,  'tis  you,"  he  said,  in  a  perfectly 
natural,  matter-of-fact  voice.  "Do  you 
know,  I  thought  it  was  an  angel." 

She  leaned  forward,  and  took  from  his 
forehead  a  handkerchief  which  she  had  kept 
moistened  with  cologne.  As  she  sprinkled 
it  afresh,  a  pleasant  smile  crossed  his  face. 

"The  angel  never  would  have  thought 
of  doing  that,"  he  said. 

Ah,  the  ineffable  balm  of  that  little  speech, 
so  characteristic,  too,  of  David.  He  did  love 
cologne;  he  always  had.  And  never  once  in 
all  these  years  had  she  let  the  supply  run  out. 


io8  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

How  many  hundred,  how  many  thousand, 
times  had  she  seen  him  lift  the  slender  green 
bottle  from  its  lacquer  stand,  and  sprinkle  a 
few  drops  on  his  pocket-handkerchief, — al- 
ways a  fresh  handkerchief,  right  under  his 
hand.  It  had  been  the  finishing  touch  to  his 
toilet.  He  had  never  bought  a  bottle  of  co- 
logne for  himself,  nor  had  he  ever  expressed 
any  surprise  at  the  inexhaustible  supply.  He 
had  taken  it  for  granted,  as  he  had  taken 
for  granted  other  good  things  of  his  wife's 
providing,  could  she  but  have  recalled  them 
for  her  consolation.  But  now  he  said,  with 
a  pleased  smile  (and  it  crossed  her  mind 
that  he  had  not  once  smiled  upon  the  angel), 
"The  angel  never  would  have  thought  of 
doing  that." 

As  she  readjusted  the  handkerchief,  very 
skilfully,  that  no  stray  drop  should  go 
trickling  down  his  face,  the  smile  of  satis- 
faction broadened. 

"Did  I  call  you  an  angel,  last  night?"  he 
asked. 

"Yes,"  she  replied;  adding,  with  com- 
mendable modesty, — "Wasn't  it  a  funny 
mistake?" 

"I  suppose  it  was  the  hair,"  he  mused. 

"It  must  have  been,"  she  agreed,  meekly. 


The  Downfall  of  Georgiana.          109 

"And  the  white  sack.  You  always  look 
so  pretty  in  white,  and  with  your  hair 
down." 

"I  suppose  angels  can  dress  that  way  all 
the  time,"  she  observed,  conscious  of  an 
unreasoning  pang  of  jealousy. 

"Like  as  not;  only, — you  wouldn't  care 
what  they  wore." 

"And  why  not?"  she  queried,  with  quick 
solicitude;  for  she  could  not  but  regard  that 
angel  in  the  light  of  a  dangerous  rival. 

"Why  not?  Why,  I  suppose," — and  he 
touched  her  hand,  diffidently, — "I  suppose 
because, — you  would  n't  be  in  love  with 
them." 

Poor  Georgiana!  In  all  their  courtship 
she  had  heard  no  word  so  sweet  as  that ;  in 
all  her  married  life  her  heart  had  not  so 
melted  within  her.  With  a  sob  that  was 
little  short  of  "emotional,"  she  sank  to  her 
knees  beside  the  bed,  and  as  David  lifted 
a  deprecating  hand,  she  drew  it  to  her,  and, 
hiding  her  face  upon  it,  she  burst  into  tears, — 
genuine,  heartfelt,  delicious,  tears. 

The  sun  had  got  clear  of  the  morning 
vapors,  and,  finding  the  town  still  asleep, 
could  hit  upon  nothing  better  to  do  than 
send  one  of  his  brightest  rays  straight  across 


no  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

that  quiet  chamber,  till  it  touched  the 
tousled  hair. 

And  David,  lying  perfectly  still,  and  feeling 
those  wonderful,  warm  tears  upon  his  hand, 
began  remembering  the  words  he  had  said 
in  his  delirium.  And  a  strange,  new,  master- 
fulness entered  into  him.  He  had  owned 
the  truth  at  last, — owned  it  to  himself, 
owned  it  to  Georgiana.  And  there  she  wTas 
on  her  knees  beside  him,  like  any  weak, 
soft-hearted  woman  of  them  all,  and  hot 
tears  were  wetting  his  hand.  Well,  well! 
He  should  not  stand  in  awe  of  Georgiana 
any  more,  but,  ah,  how  he  would  love  her! 

After  a  while,  as  the  sobs  subsided,  he 
extended  his  other  hand,  and,  laying  it  on 
the  charmingly  dishevelled  head,  he  said, 
musingly,  yet  with  the  faintest  thrill  of 
lingering  self-gratulation  on  the  words, — 
"No,  you  wouldn't  be  in  love  with  an 
angel,  Georgiana!" 

And  Georgiana  lifted  her  head  and  tuming 
upon  him  a  look  of  radiant  assurance  she 
said,  with  just  a  trace  of  her  old  decision  of 
accent, — "David,  I  want  you  to  promise 
me  one  thing." 

It  was  a  severe  test  to  put  upon  a  sick  man, 
but  he  recognized  the  importance  of  the 


The  Downfall  of  Georgiana.          1 1 1 

crisis.  If  he  was  ever  really  to  assert  him- 
self, if  he  was  ever  to  reap  the  advantage 
of  a  happy  accident,  now  was  the  time  to 
do  it. 

Summoning  every  shred  of  courage  that 
a  life  of  benevolent  assimilation  had  left 
him,  he  replied,  firmly: 

"I  don't  know  about  that,  Georgiana.  I 
can  make  no  promises  if  they  are  against 
my  better  judgment." 

For  an  instant  she  was  taken  aback,  but 
for  an  instant  only.  Then  a  wave  of  strong 
approval  crossed  her  face,  leaving  it  clarified, 
subdued  if  you  like,  but  indescribably  en- 
gaging, as  she  said,— 

"I  want  you  to  promise  me  that,  from 
now  on,  you  will  smoke  just  as  many  cigars 
a  day  as  you  think  best!" 


IV. 
WILLIAM'S  WILLIE. 

YOUNG  William  Pratt  was  afflicted  with 
an  incubus;  a  hateful,  hampering 
thing  which  he  had  been  carrying 
about  with  him  for  the  better  part  of  his 
life.  He  had  got  quite  used  to  it,  to  be  sure, 
for  it  had  been  lying  dormant  for  a  long 
time  now,  and  a  person  does  adjust  himself 
to  a  mere  dead  weight.  But  one  day  some- 
thing happened  which  rendered  it  extremely 
desirable  to  turn  the  thing  out,  neck  and 
crop;  and  such  was  the  tenacity  of  its  hold 
upon  him,  and  so  mistaken  was  his  estimate 
of  his  own  powers,  that  the  possibility  of 
a  summary  ejection  never  once  entered  his 
mind. 

It  was  just  three  days  after  Isabel  Allen's 
return  from  boarding-school,  transformed 
from  a  nice  little  girl  into  a  young  goddess, — 

112 


William's  Willie.  113 

a  phenomenon  which  William  was  among 
the  first  to  observe. 

They  had  been  picnicking,  very  grega- 
riously, with  a  party  of  young  people,  on 
Joy's  Hill,  it  being  Saturday  afternoon  and 
holiday  weather.  Scarcely  was  the  fire  cov- 
ered in  however  than  the  little  company 
had  split  into  groups,  quite  after  the  manner 
of  a  ball  of  quicksilver,  that  goes  gleaming 
off  in  a  dozen  different  directions  at  the 
lightest  pin-point  of  a  touch.  William  and 
Isabel,  assiduously  chaperoned  by  Brady, 
William's  mongrel  terrier,  had  found  their 
way  to  a  certain  clump  of  ancient  oaks, 
well-known  to  Brady  and  William,  from  the 
shadow  of  which  they  could  look  out  upon 
all  the  world  and  the  kingdoms  thereof;  for 
the  eyes  of  the  young  see  far. 

Isabel,  having  seated  herself  on  a  hos- 
pitable rock,  in  a  cleft  of  which  last  year's 
leaves  and  acorns  still  found  lodgment,  her 
taciturn  escort  had  dropped,  acorn  fashion, 
at  her  feet.  She  had  taken  off  her  little 
butter-plate  of  a  hat,  which  might  as  well 
have  been  worn  as  a  locket  for  all  the  good 
it  did.  Whereupon  the  God  of  Day,  being 
in  genial  mood,  fell  to  pelting  with  shadow 
oak-leaves  not  only  the  dotted  muslin 


1 14  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

frock  that  she  wore,  but  her  already  well- 
burnished  tresses.  In  so  doing,  the  God  of 
Day  showed  commendable  good  taste,  for 
one  of  the  very  nicest  things  about  Isabel 
was  the  way  she  did  her  hair;  not  in  the 
awkward  style  then  in  vogue,  but  in  two 
shining  braids  worn  coronet-wise  above  the 
brow.  Not  every  girl  could  have  ventured 
that  departure  from  the  prevailing  mode; 
but  there  was  something  in  the  way  Isabel's 
head  was  set  on  her  shoulders  which  seemed 
to  invite  classic  treatment.  People  who 
knew  the  family — and  everybody  in  Dun- 
bridge  who  was  anybody  did  know  the 
Aliens — declared  that  she  got  that  queenly 
pose,  and  the  level  outlook  of  the  eyes  too, 
from  her  Aunt  Isabel, — the  aunt,  by  the 
way,  who  had  been  the  first  wife  of  William's 
father.  Though,  since  Aunt  Isabel  had 
died  many  years  before  her  little  niece  was 
born,  the  testamentary  transaction  must 
have  been  of  a  highly  prophetic  character. 
As  she  sat  looking  down  upon  her  com- 
panion, his  long  length  spread  out  carelessly 
at  her  feet,  his  fingers  toying  absently  with 
Brady's  ear, — Isabel  indulged  in  sundry  ob- 
servations of  her  own,  the  drift  of  which 
was  hardly  to  be  inferred  from  the  remark 


William's  Willie.  115 

wherewith  she  elected  to  break  the  silence. 
For  all  she  said  was:  "Brady  is  a  dear." 

"He's  only  a  cur,"  William  felt  con- 
strained to  own.  He  loved  his  dog,  but  he 
would  not  take  unfair  advantage  of  girlish 
ignorance. 

"I  always  did  like  curs,"  was  Isabel's 
rash  rejoinder.  For  she  did  not  in  the  least 
know  the  difference,  and  was  merely  gen- 
eralizing from  one  particular  instance.  She 
might  of  course  have  argued  that  if  Brady 
was  a  cur,  that  settled  it,  because  he  was 
just  the  kind  of  dog  she  did  like.  Perhaps 
Brady  himself  took  that  view;  for  he  was 
no  stern  moralist.  At  any  rate,  he  promptly 
wagged  a  self-satisfied  tail. 

"Looks  as  if  you  had  a  fancy  for  no- 
account  folks,"  the  young  man  hazarded, 
still  thoughtfully  playing  with  Brady's  apol- 
ogy for  an  ear.  "That  must  have  been  why 
you  came  along  with  me,  just  now,  and  left 
the  other  fellows  in  the  lurch." 

"The  other  fellows  never  asked  me,"  she 
protested,  with  a  little  toss. 

Then  William  sat  up  straight  and  declared, 
quite  ferociously, — "They  didn't  get  a 
chance!" 

Whereupon  Brady,  conscious  of  a  desolate 


1 1 6  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

feeling  in  the  abandoned  ear,  proceeded  to 
crawl  up  his  master's  person,  whimpering 
for  more. 

"He's  a  regular  Oliver  Twist,"  Isabel 
remarked,  demurely. 

"He  is  rather  greedy,"  William  admitted, 
as  he  relapsed  again  on  his  elbow.  "I  guess 
he  had  been  kept  on  short  rations  before 
he  came  tome." 

She  could  see  William's  face  now,  for 
he  had  turned  his  head  a  bit,  and  she  found 
herself  tracing  a  resemblance  to  the  daguerre- 
otype of  his  father,  taken  just  before  her 
Aunt  Isabel  died.  It  was  not  very  marked, 
that  resemblance;  in  fact  the  face  was  of  a 
quite  different  type,  though  the  brooding 
eyes  were  the  same,  and  the  hair  grew  like 
his  father's.  But,  while  the  chin  was 
strongly  modelled,  there  was  a  sensitiveness 
of  line  in  mouth  and  nose,  that  lent  the 
countenance  a  look  of  ultra-refinement, 
unlike  as  possible  to  that  of  the  elder  William. 
These  however  were  subtleties  to  escape 
the  youthful  observer  and  Isabel,  as  was  to 
have  been  expected,  found  what  she  was 
looking  for;  namely,  a  resemblance  to  the 
soldier  uncle,  whose  second  wife,  William's 
mother,  had  filched  him  from  out  the  family 


William's  Willie.  117 

circle,  away  back  in  the  dark  ages,  before 
time  began  for  Isabel.  The  likeness,  such 
as  it  was,  touched  the  deepest  sentiment 
the  girl  had  yet  known.  For  Isabel  could 
recall  the  war,  in  its  later  phases,  especially 
the  battered  blue-coats  that  came  straggling 
home  when  it  was  over.  The  sight  of  those 
scarred  and  crippled  veterans  had  stirred 
her  heart,  child  though  she  was. 

"How  much  can  you  remember  of  the 
war?"  she  asked,  abruptly. 

A  swift  pang  took  him,  a  treacherous 
thrust  of  that  incubus  that  had  been  lying  low, 
watching  its  chance.  But  he  gave  no  sign 
of  discomfiture,  as  he  replied, — "Oh,  I  re- 
member it  from  the  beginning. " 

"Tell  me  about  your  father,"  she  begged. 

William  hesitated  a  moment,  while  Brady's 
ear  profited  by  his  preoccupation.  Such 
kind  fingers  as  William  had, — though  in 
this  instance  it  was  the  incubus,  rather  than 
Brady,  that  he  was  trying  to  pacify. 

At  last,— "There  isn't  much  to  tell,"  he 
answered.  "He  hadn't  half  believed  in  it, 
thought  there  was  no  need  of  war,  and  so 
on;  but  when  they  fired  on  the  flag,  he  just 
went  down  there  and  got  shot." 

"It  was  at  Bull  Run,  wasn't  it?" 


1 1 8  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

"Yes;  but  he  must  have  fallen  before  the 
rout  began,  for  he  was  shot  through  the 
breast. " 

"So  it  was  victory  for  him,  after  all." 
The  words  were  very  low,  but  all  the  more 
penetrating  for  that. 

And  then  William  knew  that  his  hour 
had  struck.  He  glanced  up  at  her,  while 
a  hot  wave  of  gratitude  surged  to  his 
heart. 

"Yes,  it  was  victory,"  he  answered,  in 
his  deep  bass  that  had  never  learned  to 
vibrate  until  that  instant. 

That  was  four  months  ago,  and  all  this 
time  William  had  kept  his  own  counsel  so 
well,  that  he  was  justified  in  believing 
that  no  one  surmised  the  case  he  was  in; 
unless  of  course  it  were  Brady.  He  had  no 
secrets  from  Brady.  And  it  never  once  oc- 
curred to  him  to  mistrust  Brady's  growing 
intimacy  with  Isabel,  though  he  often  saw 
him  telling  her  things  on  the  sly;  things 
which  seemed  to  give  her  pleasure  too,  to 
judge  by  the  quite  intoxicating  caresses 
she  bestowed  upon  the  good  brute  in  return. 
But  unless  Brady  had  been  indiscreet  enough 
to  mention  the  incubus,  which  seems  un- 
likely, Isabel  had  no  means  of  knowing 


William 


He  had  no  secrets  from  Brady. 


•>  »  T  j 

•    •  • 

. 

'      -  '     -      ' 

... 


William's  Willie.  119 

how  it  hurt  when  she  talked  to  William  of 
his  father,  as  she  often  did,  just  because  his 
presence  set  her  thinking  of  that  modest 
hero. 

For  William's  father  was  his  pride  and 
his  despair. 

He  was  a  very  little  chap  when  the  elder 
William  went  to  the  war,  not  quite  ten  in 
fact,  and  his  one  distinct  memory  of  his 
father  dated  from  the  hour  of  his  going. 
He  could  still  see  quite  plainly  the  tall, 
rugged  form  in  its  private's  uniform, — for 
William  Pratt  fought  in  the  ranks  and  asked 
no  favors, — and  the  stern,  set  face,  no 
longer  young;  he  could  still  hear  the  deep, 
curiously  unemotional  voice  in  which  he 
had  said  his  soldierly  good-byes. 

Willie's  mother  had  wept  copiously  at 
the  time,  and  the  child  had  got  the  im- 
pression that  she  was  angry  about  some- 
thing. It  seemed  likely  enough,  for  when 
boys  cried  it  was  almost  always  from  temper. 
Not  until  he  came  upon  his  sister  Mary, 
after  the  parting  was  over,  crying  her  heart 
out  in  a  corner  of  the  parlor  sofa,  did  he 
perceive  that  there  was  a  difference  in  tears. 
And  it  was  still  later,  the  day  the  brief 
word  came  over  the  wires:  "Dead;  shot  in 


I2O  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

the  breast,"  that  he  himself  felt  the  first 
stab  of  grief. 

The  boy  had  loved  his  father  in  a  remote, 
unrealized  way, — William  had  never  under- 
stood making  friends  with  his  children, — 
but,  now,  that  latent,  groping  sort  of  love 
was  merged  in  an  idealizing  passion.  And 
always  in  the  dark  hours  of  the  night,  when 
he  chanced  to  wake,  which  he  often  did 
(for  Willie  was  a  highstrung,  sensitive  little 
lad),  he  thought  of  the  man  who  had  shot 
the  brave  soldier,  and  thought  of  him  with 
pity.  What  a  terrible  fate,  to  go  to  war 
and  be  made  to  shoot  a  good  man  dead! 

After  a  while  the  call  for  men  grew  louder 
and  more  urgent,  and  about  that  time  rumors 
reached  the  North  of  the  extreme  youth  of 
the  Southern  recruits.  He  heard  of  boys 
of  seventeen,  of  sixteen,  finally  of  fifteen, 
enlisting  in  the  ranks,  and  his  little  soul 
was  sick  with  fear.  The  war  had  lasted 
so  long, — two  years  it  was,  now, — he  never 
thought  of  its  stopping;  and  here  he  was 
going  on  for  twelve,  and  the  age-limit 
lowering  season  by  season.  He  never  could 
do  it,  never.  Supposing  he  were  to  be 
drafted,  and  should  have  to  go,  and  there 
should  be  a  bayonet  charge, — he  used  to 


William's  Willie.  121 

read  about  them  in  the  newspapers, — and 
he  should  be  driven  to  sticking  a  bayonet 
into  an  enemy's  breast! — the  breast  of  a 
good  man  whom  somebody  loved,  so  close 
to  him,  too,  that  he  could  hear  the  tearing 
wound  and  feel  the  spouting  blood.  He 
should  run  away  before  he  did  that,  he  knew 
he  should  run  away,  and  his  father's  very 
own  name  would  be  disgraced.  For  did 
they  not  call  him  William's  Willie? 

At  last  he  went  to  his  mother  about  it. 
He  had  never  found  much  satisfaction  in  go- 
ing to  his  mother,  but  then,  one  can't  help 
hoping,  when  it 's  all  the  mother  one  has. 

He  found  her  standing  before  the  looking- 
glass,  putting  the  last  touches  to  an  elaborate 
toilet  in  which  crape  largely  predominated. 
There  was  something  curiously  incongruous 
in  the  spread  and  buoyancy  of  an  enormous 
crinoline  under  the  sombre  mourning  raiment. 

"Mother,"  the  child  ventured,  timidly. 

"Well,"  was  the  brisk  response.  "Been 
getting  into  mischief  again?"  Willie  was 
not  a  particularly  mischievous  child,  though 
he  had  his  lapses,  but  he  was  a  boy,  and 
therefore  he  must  be  driven  on  the  curb. 

"I  wanted  to  ask  you  a  question,"  he 
faltered. 


122  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

"Then  why  don't  you  ask  it,  and  not 
stand  there,  staring  like  a  nincompoop?" 
She  was  in  the  act  of  affixing  a  large  crape 
bow  to  her  crape  collar;  for  this  was  the 
2 1st  of  July,  and  crape  was  the  ultimate 
expression  of  Edna's  mourning. 

"What 's  the  youngest  boy  you  ever 
heard  of  being  drafted?" 

The  crape  bow  fell  to  the  floor  in  sheer 
amazement. 

"Gracious,  what  a  turn  you  gave  me!" 
she  burst  out.  "Didn't  you  know  this 
was  the  anniversary  of  Bull  Run?" 

"Yes;  I  Ve  heard  you  say  so  several  times. 
So— I  thought  I  would  ask. " 

"And  I  suppose  you  'd  like  to  go  down 
there  and  get  shot,  like  your  father,"  she 
cried,  irritably,  as  she  stooped  to  pick  up 
the  bow  and,  rising  with  a  flushed  face, 
began  twitching  the  offending  ornament 
into  shape.  She  could  never  think  with 
equanimity  of  her  husband's  lack  of  con- 
sideration in  leaving  them  all  as  poor  as 
church  mice,  when  he  might  have  been  a 
rich  man  in  a  few  years  more. 

"No,"  said  Willie,  in  a  very  small  voice. 
"I  don't  want  to  go.  That 's  why  I  asked. " 

"So!  You're   a  coward,   are  you?"   she 


William's  Willie.  123 

scoffed,  as  she  fastened  the  bow  in  place. 
"To  think  of  a  son  of  mine  being  a  coward!" 

Willie's  heart  contracted  at  the  cruel 
taunt;  yet,  as  she  stepped  across  to  the 
closet  and  took  down  her  silk  basquine, — 
"But  you  have  n't  told  me,"  he  persisted. 

"Told  you  what?" 

"How  old  he  was." 

She  turned  and  confronted  the  shrinking 
child,  his  supplicating  eyes,  his  white,  drawn 
face,  and  she  felt  honestly  ashamed  of  him. 
For  it  was  not  brute  courage  that  Edna 
lacked.  If  it  had  been,  she  would  never 
have  dared  be  as  disagreeable  as  she  often 
was. 

"Old  enough  not  to  be  a  coward!"  she 
answered,  sharply;  and  upon  that  she  left 
the  boy  standing  there,  to  deal  as  best  he 
might  with  this  dreadful  accusation. 

So,  he  was  a  coward.  He  had  n't  thought 
of  that;  but  of  course  that  was  it.  His 
own  mother  had  said  it.  He  was  a  coward; 
his  father's  son,  William's  Willie,  a  coward. 
And  henceforth  the  name,  once  so  sweet 
to  hear,  sounded  to  him  like  a  wanton  gibe. 

That  was  the  last  time  Willie  ever  went 
to  his  mother  about  anything,  unless  it  were 
to  get  a  button  sewed  on,  or  some  such 


124  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

matter;  and  he  always  preferred  going 
to  his  sister  Mary,  even  for  that.  This 
was  not  because  he  resented  what  his  mother 
had  said, — he  supposed  she  had  to  tell  him; 
but  because  he  feared  her,  really  feared  her, 
as  the  burnt  child  dreads  the  fire.  She 
seemed  to  know  him  so  much  better  than 
he  knew  himself;  and  who  could  say  what 
hideous  thing  she  might  point  out  to  him, 
next  time? 

And  so  the  boy  withdrew  more  and  more 
into  himself,  until  he  had  grown  his  own 
little  husk  of  reticence,  and  was  quite  secure 
against  any  further  self-betrayal.  And  by- 
and-by,  when  he  was  thirteen,  the  war 
ceased,  and  the  poor,  shattered  country  set 
herself  to  dress  her  wounds,  though  with 
bungling  hands,  and  man}'-  a  delusive  nos- 
trum. But  no  hands  were  there  to  dress  the 
wound  festering  in  the  deepest  consciousness 
of  a  child.  And  although  William's  Willie, 
relieved  of  the  immediate  nightmare  of  war, 
did  come  to  be  a  good  deal  like  other  boys, 
inside  his  husk  as  well  as  out,  still,  deep  in 
the  very  centre  of  him  was  the  one  hard 
kernel  that  would  not  resolve  itself  into 
good,  normal  fibre, — the  ugly,  immovable 
conviction  that  he  was  a  coward. 


William's  Willie.  125 

When  William  was  sixteen,  a  few  weeks 
before  he  graduated  at  the  high-school,  his 
cousin  James  Spencer,  who  was  in  the  iron 
business,  sent  for  him  to  come  and  see  him. 
The  summons  was  authoritative,  for  James 
was  nearly  thirty  years  older  than  William, 
besides  being  a  man  of  standing  in  the 
community.  Not  a  rich  man,  like  his 
brother  Stephen,  who  was  a  banker,  and 
scooped  the  plunder  right  in,  without  sweat- 
ing for  it,  but  a  man  of  ability  and  means. 
James  had  always  mistrusted  short-cuts, 
and  with  good  reason,  too;  for  he  had  just 
three  times  as  many  children  as  Stephen, 
nine  in  fact,  and  an  invalidish  sort  of  wife 
into  the  bargain,  sweet  and  clinging,  the 
kind  that  never  takes  any  responsibility, — 
could  n't  dismiss  a  house-maid,  or  have  the 
boys'  hair  cut  unless  he  backed  her  up. 
But  despite  these  hindrances, — or  was  it 
because  of  them? — he  had  more  than  held 
his  own  in  the  business  world,  where  the  old 
firm  of  Spencer  &  Co.  was  as  prominent  now 
as  in  his  father's  day. 

"So  you're  graduating,  with  honors?" 
he  remarked,  as  soon  as  William  took  his 
seat. 

11  Not  yet.     There  's  no  list  out,  yet. " 


126  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

" Looking  for  a  chance  to  contradict;  eh?" 

At  which  William  got  inside  of  himself 
and  said  nothing,  thereby  pleasing  his  cousin 
James  quite  particularly. 

"Suppose  you're  college-mad  like  the 
rest  of  the  youngsters?"  James  went  on. 
Every  blessed  one  of  his  own  sons — then- 
ages  at  the  moment  ranged  from  six  to 
sixteen — had  already  requisitioned  his  father 
for  a  college  course,  with  an  eye  undoubtedly 
to  athletic  glories.  The  thing  was  getting 
a  bit  on  his  nerves.  And  the  girls  too! 
Why  that  little  snip  of  a  Susie  was  talking 
Vassar,  only  yesterday.  He  himself  had 
never  been  to  college,  he  would  have  you 
know.  A  man  could  pull  through  without 
it;  eh? 

William  was  long  enough  in  answering 
for  James  to  get  somewhat  worked  up  over 
his  own  problems.  It  did  n't  take  much  to 
work  James  up.  But  the  boy  did  answer 
at  last,  quite  explicitly. 

"I  'd  rather  go  to  college  than  anything," 
he  said.  "But  of  course  I  know  I  can't." 

"Hmph!  Glad  you  have  the  wit  to  see 
that.  Now,  what  do  you  say  to  coming 
over  to  my  place  for  a  starter?" 

Again   William   fell   silent.     He   did   not 


William's  Willie.  127 

feel  particularly  drawn  to  pig-tin  or  Russian 
sheet-iron;  but  perhaps  they  might  prove 
more  attractive  on  nearer  acquaintance. 
Anyhow  he  had  got  his  living  to  earn,  and 
that  was  about  the  best  thing  he  knew  about 
himself. 

James  had  settled  back  in  his  chair,  and 
was  weighing  the  chances  of  horse-sense 
being  discoverable  in  the  boy's  constitution. 
"I  think  I  should  like  to,"  William 
answered,  at  last.  ' '  It 's  a  first  rate  chance. ' ' 
1 '  Good !  And  when  shall  we  look  for  you  ? ' ' 
"The  day  after  graduation,  if  you  say  so." 
And  on  the  day  after  graduation,  now 
five  years  ago,  William's  Willie,  who  had 
taken  honors  and  delivered  the  valedictory 
to  boot,  might  have  been  seen  standing  at  the 
sink  in  the  closet  of  the  private  office, 
earnestly  cleaning  out  his  employer's  ink- 
stand. In  fact  he  was  so  seen;  for  James 
came  in  at  the  moment,  and  stood  eyeing 
him  with  interest.  It  was  a  test  which  he 
invariably  applied  to  a  new  boy;  he  con- 
sidered it  important.  In  this  instance  he 
observed  that  the  boy  was  doing  the  rather 
nasty  job  quite  unostentatiously,  without 
any  needless  smearing  of  his  own  person, 
but  he  was  doing  it  right.  Well,  that  was 


128  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

very  good  as  far  as  it  went,  though  it  did  n't 
of  course  settle  anything. 

Now  James  Spencer,  like  many  another 
blusterer,  was  a  kind-hearted  man,  and  he 
was  glad  to  be  doing  his  Uncle  William's 
boy  a  good  turn.  If  he  had  his  doubts 
about  William's  Willie  being  quite  worthy 
of  the  title,  it  may  have  been  because  of  a 
reputation  the  lad  had  incurred  of  fighting 
shy  of  a  scrimmage.  For  while  James  had 
been  known  to  flog  a  boy  of  his  own  for  a 
too  frequent  indulgence  in  black  eyes,  he 
would  hardly  have  thought  a  youngster 
worth  flogging  who  could  n't  glory  in  a 
fight. 

"Well,  James,"  Old  Lady  Pratt  inquired, 
a  week  or  two  later,  ' '  how 's  William's 
Willie  holding  out  to  burn?" 

James  made  it  a  rule  to  call  upon  his 
grandmother  of  a  Sunday.  He  said  it  was 
because  she  was  the  most  agreeable  woman 
he  knew.  If  Nannie,  his  wife,  did  not  take 
this  literally,  why,  all  the  better  for  Nannie! 

"He's  doing  well,  so  far,"  he  admitted. 
"He  can  clean  out  an  inkstand,  and  he  can 
get  an  errand  straight." 

"I  told  you  he  'd  come  up  to  the  scratch." 

Old  Lady  Pratt  had  as  keen  a  relish  for 


William's  Willie.  129 

the  vernacular  as  James  himself.  That  was 
a  great  bond  between  them ;  a  bond  that  was 
cemented  every  Sunday  over  the  cherry- 
bounce  and  seed-cakes,  a  relay  of  which 
Aunt  Betsy  had  just  brought  in.  This 
particular  form  of  indulgence  had  been 
James's  prerogative  since  about  the  time 
he  left  off  snapping  spit-balls  at  the  cat. 
As  he  glanced  at  his  grandmother  over 
the  rim  of  his  glass,  he  could  not  see  that  she 
had  changed  much  in  the  interval.  How 
straight  she  sat  in  that  uncompromising 
chair  of  hers!  Steve,  the  old  money-bags, 
had  once  made  her  a  present  of  a  fifty-dollar 
easy-chair.  She  was  pleased  with  the  atten- 
tion, oh,  very  much  pleased;  for  truth  to 
tell,  Stephen  was  not  often  so  lavish  as  that. 
But  to  James's  secret  glee  she  could  never 
be  induced  to  sit  in  it  herself. 

"Wait  till  I  'm  an  old  woman, "  she  would 
say.  She  was  only  eighty-seven,  now! 

"Well,"  the  grandson  threw  in,  as  he 
sipped  his  glass,  to  make  it  hold  out  longer. 
"A  new  broom,  you  know. " 

"Now  don't  you  be  fooled  by  any  old 
saws,"  she  admonished.  "Most  things  are 
jest  as  true,  't  other  way  about." 

"Then    it's    your    opinion    that    there's 


1 30  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

real  stuff  in  the  boy?"  And  James  set 
down  his  empty  glass.  He  would  have  been 
glad  of  another,  but  he  knew  better  than 
to  ask  for  it.  Old  Lady  Pratt  disliked 
excess. 

"Stuff  in  him?"  she  repeated,  sharply. 
"You  appear  to  be  forgettin'  that  he's 
William's  Willie.  I  tell  ye,  James  Spencer, 
that  boy  's  a  chip  o'  the  old  block,  ef  he  is 
a  leetle  mite  finical." 

And  just  there  Old  Lady  Pratt  had  put 
her  finger  on  a  defect  in  William,  the  recog- 
nition of  which  had  gone  far  to  confirm  him 
in  his  morbid  fancies.  He  was  finical,  and 
he  knew  it.  He  had  done  what  he  could 
to  toughen  himself,  —  gymnastics,  cheap 
lunch-counters,  and  what  not;  but  he  was 
always  conscious  of  a  womanish  streak 
which  he  had  never  been  able  to  eradicate, 
although  he  had  frequent  resort  to  heroic 
measures,  such  as  calling  himself  "Miss 
Nancy,"  and  vindictively  taking  the  young 
lady  to  lunch  on  leather-stew  and  kerosene 
pudding,  and  asking  her  how  she  liked  it. 

Things  might  have  gone  even  worse  with 
him  if  it  had  n't  been  for  Brady.  But  since 
the  day  Brady  picked  him  up  on  the  street 
a  year  ago,  and  deliberately  took  him  in 


William's  Willie.  131 

training,  William  had  got  mixed  up  in  so 
many  gory  scrimmages,  that  he  had  learned 
to  face  a  ragged  ear  or  an  open  shoulder 
with  only  a  passing  shudder  of  repulsion; 
even  to  bathe  it  and  pull  the  hairs  out  of  it. 
Perhaps  Brady  knew  he  had  a  mission;  or 
perhaps  he  only  fell  in  love  with  William. 
At  any  rate,  being  a  dog  of  parts,  it  is  not 
likely  that  he  remained  long  in  ignorance 
of  that  miserable  incubus  that  was  leading 
his  master  such  a  life, — why,  he  could  smell 
a  woodchuck  across  a  ten-acre  lot ! — nor  that 
he  failed  to  take  Isabel  into  his  confidence 
early  in  the  proceedings.  She  certainly 
gave  him  every  facility  for  doing  so,  even 
at  the  cost  of  extending  like  privileges  to 
Brady's  master. 

And  although  William  persisted  in  regard- 
ing the  way  to  Isabel's  favor  as  "no-thorough- 
fare," — for  he  was  only  twenty-one,  and 
his  judgment  was  fallible, — this  did  not 
deter  him  from  singeing  his  wings  quite 
recklessly;  wings  being  independent  of  thor- 
oughfares,— and  it  never  having  occurred  to 
him  that  Isabel's  own  might  be  inflammable 
too. 

"Just  what  is  an  ingot?"  she  asked,  one 
evening,  after  one  of  those  pauses  in  the 


132  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

talk  which  always  made  them  feel  such  good 
friends.  "I  came  across  the  word  in  a 
poem  the  other  day,  and  I  thought  it  was 
something  a  metal-merchant  might  know 
about." 

So  satisfactory  of  Isabel  to  put  it  that 
way!  The  ordinary  run  of  girl  seemed  to 
imagine  that  a  man  passed  his  time  hanging 
on  the  hat-tree  in  the  intervals  of  philander- 
ing. But  Isabel  called  him  a  metal-mer- 
chant. He  was  coming  to  know  something 
about  the  metal-business  by  the  way,  ink- 
stands and  errand-running  having  proved 
but  stepping-stones  in  a  pretty  steady 
advancement. 

It  had  got  to  be  November  now,  and  they 
were  sitting  before  the  fire,  Isabel  in  a  low 
chair,  where  the  waving  flame  seemed  as 
much  enamored  of  that  coronet  of  braids 
as  the  great  Source  of  Fire  had  shown  himself 
to  be  on  a  certain  day  in  June  which  William 
and  Brady  would  never  forget.  Brady,  be- 
ing persona  grata  in  the  Allen  household, 
was  again  acting  as  chaperon,  and  as  the 
young  hostess  stooped  to  pat  his  head  a 
moment  ago,  he  had  taken  occasion  to 
whisper  something  in  her  ear.  Perhaps  that 
was  what  had  set  her  thinking  about  poetry. 


William's  Willie.  133 

But  William,  as  beseemed  a  solid  man 
of  business,  answered  quite  literally, — "In- 
got is  just  a  fancy  name  for  pig." 

"For  what?"  she  cried. 

"Why,  a  pig  of  iron,  or  a  pig  of  tin,  you 
know."  And  as  she  still  looked  rather 
pained, — William  was  not  always  as  tactful 
as  Brady, — he  added:  "A  great  chunk  of 
metal,  you  understand,  melted,  and  then 
solidified." 

"Oh!" 

"It 's  mighty  interesting  when  you  know 
about  it.  You  feel  as  if  you  had  got  hold 
of  something  real." 

"I  should  think  you  might,"  she  mocked, 
"when  you  had  got  hold  of  an  iron  pig!" 
But  she  looked  receptive. 

"I  wish  you  could  see  those  fellows  of 
Cousin  Jim's  handle  the  stuff,"  he  went 
on,  warming  to  his  subject.  "There's  one 
chap  we  Ve  just  taken  on,  that  's  a  regular 
Hercules." 

"I  don't  think  I  care  much  for  brute 
strength,"  Isabel  announced,  with  light 
misprision.  "A  man  needn't  be  so  dread- 
fully strong,  if  only  he  's  got  plenty  of  grit. " 

"Yes;  if  he's  only  got  plenty  of  grit," 
William  echoed,  thoughtfully.  "That's  a 


134  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

big  'if,'  is  n't  it?"  He  knew  he  was 
imperilling  that  husk  of  his,  and  it  was  not 
the  first  time  either.  But  she  had  always 
shown  herself  so  unsuspicious,  that  he  had 
come  to  be  rather  off  his  guard. 

They  were  both  looking  into  the  fire,  and 
he  did  not  catch  the  quick  glance  she  gave 
him.  Her  reply  was  reassuringly  impersonal. 

"I  don't  believe  our  soldiers  knew  much 
about  their  grit,  till  the  time  came,"  she 
mused.  "But  look  what  they  did." 

"Do  you  suppose  that  was  the  way  of  it?" 

"Papa  says  so.  He  says  some  of  them 
were  such  unlikely  soldiers.  No  great  stam- 
ina, and  had  never  had  a  taste  of  hard- 
ship. But  when  the  time  came,  they  just 
turned  heroes." 

And  even  then  he  never  guessed  that  she 
knew  about  the  incubus.  He  fancied  it 
to  be  quite  by  accident  that  she  had  spoken 
that  illuminating  word. 

She  did  n't  believe  our  soldiers  knew  much 
about  their  grit,  till  the  time  came?  Well, 
perhaps  they  did  n't !  And  at  that,  it 
seemed  to  William  as  if  the  old  incubus  were 
shifting  uneasily, — just  enough  to  let  the 
daylight  in.  Would  he  ever  get  his  chance, 
and  send  it  packing? 


William's  Willie.  135 

And  the  very  next  evening  William's 
chance  came,  in  guise  of  an  event  portentous 
enough  to  dislodge  any  incubus  that  ever 
crouched  and  clung. 

It  was  the  second  Saturday  in  November, 
and  by  ten  o'clock  in  the  evening  all  Dun- 
bridge  was  agog  about  the  great  fire  that 
was  burning  the  very  marrow  out  of  Boston, 
hardly  two  miles  away.  And  those  who  had 
cupolas  were  crowding  into  them,  watching 
the  spread  of  the  flames ;  and  those  who  had 
valuables  in  jeopardy  were  calling  vainly 
for  horses;  and  those  that  had  legs,  but 
could  n't  lay  hands  on  a  horse,  were  footing 
it  over  the  long  bridge  if  the  horse-cars  were 
jammed  full,  as  they  mostly  were;  and  those 
that  had  the  gout  were  stumping  about  their 
piazzas,  as  James  Spencer  was  doing,  won- 
dering why  in  thunder  those  boys  of  his 
did  n't  show  up.  The  bigger  ones  had  made 
a  dash  for  the  fire  before  anybody  had 
guessed  its  magnitude,  and  that  had  been 
the  last  of  them.  It  was  clear  moonlight, 
and  he  expected  every  minute  to  see  Tom 
come  sprinting  up  the  path.  What  was  the 
good  of  sending  a  boy  to  college,  if  he  could  n't 
sprint?  But  the  young  beggar  was  no  doubt 
gawking  at  the  fire,  and  his  father  tied  by 


136  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

the  leg  with  this  confounded  gout,  and  both 
horses  laid  up  with  the  "idiotics"  as  Michael 
called  it.  He  wondered  if  he  should  have 
to  send  Michael  after  all.  No,  that  would 
never  do.  He  'd  as  like  as  not  get  the 
"idiotics"  himself,  without  his  horses  to 
steady  him.  And  James  sat  precipitately 
down  on  a  porch-chair  and,  grabbing  an 
indignant  toe,  said  "damn." 

That  really  did  seem  to  work;  for  in 
another  minute  there  was  the  click  of  the 
gate,  and  a  slim  figure  tearing  up  the  path. 
Well,  Tom  had  come  to  his  senses  at  last. 
Good  lad,  good  lad!  But  no,  not  Tom. 
Why,  William's  Willie,  by  the  living  Jingo! 
Of  course!  Might  have  known  it.  He  'd 
be  sure  to  be  on  hand. 

"Cousin  Jim,"  he  panted.  "I've  just 
come  from  the  fire.  It  has  n't  got  anywhere 
near  us  yet,  but  it 's  something  big,  and  I 
think  perhaps  you  'd  better  let  me  have 
your  keys  in  case 

"Don't  stand  there  jabbering!"  James 
cried,  flinging  the  keys  at  him.  "Save  those 
books, — and  look  out  for  that  small  parcel 
in  the  right-hand  drawer.  The  brass  key 
fits  it." 

"But  I  can't  lug  those  books  far;  they 


William's  Willie.  137 

weigh  tons.  And  they  are  charging  all 
creation  for  a  cab. " 

"Then  tell  'em  I'll  pay  all  creation! 
But  bring  'em  here.  And  don't  wait  till 
they  're  afire,  either!  Now,  go  it!"  And 
in  his  excitement,  James  brought  his  stick 
down  on  his  favorite  toe,  and,  with  a  roar 
of  pain,  sank  back  in  his  chair. 

But  as  he  watched  the  agile  figure,  speeding 
down  the  path, — "Gad,  but  I  'd  like  to  own 
that  boy,"  he  muttered.  "Only  't  would 
make  ten,  and  what  in  all  conscience  would 
Nannie  say  to  that?" 

William  meanwhile  was  easily  outstripping 
the  closely  packed  horse-cars,  crawling  in  over 
the  bridge;  for  he  had  got  his  first  draught  of 
a  fiery  brew,  and  the  thirst  for  more  spurred 
him  on. 

As  he  struck  into  the  city  streets,  where 
weird  flashes  of  heat  and  light  beckoned 
from  afar,  his  blood  bounded  to  the  call. 
Breaking  into  a  run,  he  kept  the  gait  till 
he  was  caught  again  in  the  turmoil.  Then, 
pushing  his  way  on  and  in,  as  close  as  the 
guards  allowed,  he  stood  for  a  space  drinking 
his  fill  of  that  tremendous  potion. 

Yet  it  was  not  altogether  the  mighty 
spectacle  that  fired  his  brain,  not  the  pande- 


138  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

monium  of  crashing  walls,  of  roaring,  jubilant 
flames,  of  throbbing  engines,  their  whistles 
shrieking  for  coal.  It  was  the  men,  strain- 
ing, sweltering,  smoke-begrimed,  turning  into 
heroes!  He  longed,  with  a  fierce  longing, 
to  plunge  in  among  them, — any  way,  any 
how,  to  have  his  part.  God!  But  they 
were  men,  to  stick  there  in  that  rain  of  fire, 
battling  against  such  fearful  odds!  And 
those  other  fellows,  hauling  their  lumbering 
"steamer"  straight  into  the  blazing  furnace! 
How  slowly  the  unwieldy  mass  advanced, 
how  the  men  were  tugging,  and  how  thick 
the  burning  fragments  fell  about  them! 
If  there  had  only  been  horses!  Anything 
but  this  dragging  pace  among  the  firebrands ! 
Not  a  horse  anywhere,  except  the  rickety 
nags  hitched  to  that  coal-cart  over  there, 
and  one  of  those  was  keeling  over,  got  the 
distemper  no  doubt,  and  the  coal  stuck  fast, 
out  of  reach  of  the  gasping,  famishing  engines. 
Yet  there  were  cabs,  he  knew,  prowling 
about,  reaping  a  fat  harvest,  just  outside  the 
fire-zone.  He  had  seen  them  an  hour  ago, 
and  he  must  find  one  now.  That  was  his  job, 
worse  luck! — to  keep  out  of  that  splendid 
fight  and  find  a  cab!  If  only  he  might 
espy  one  in  there  in  the  very  thick  of  it  all! 


William's  Willie.  139 

In  default  of  any  such  apparition,  and 
hating  himself  for  a  quitter,  he  turned  at 
last  and,  working  his  way  back  through  the 
crowd,  started  off  again  on  his  own  inglorious 
errand.  And  as  he  skirted  the  ever  spreading 
fan  of  fire,  winnowing  the  air  with  blasts 
of  its  own  engendering,  flying  gusts  of  heat 
stung  his  cheek,  and  he  chafed  like  a  young 
horse  at  the  bit  which  holds  him  to  the 
ignominious  beaten  track. 

He  had  left  the  fire  far  afield,  and  had 
turned  into  Oliver  Street  where  his  cousin's 
store  stood  a  few  rods  further  on.  Thinking 
that  he  heard  a  cab  approaching,  he  stayed 
his  step.  The  street  was  only  dimly  lighted 
by  its  sparse  gas-lamps,  the  moon  being 
quite  obliterated  in  the  pall  of  smoke  that 
hung  over  the  city,  shot  through  with  the 
wild  glare  of  the  flames. 

As  William  paused  in  that  remote,  de- 
serted spot,  trying  to  make  out  the  direction 
of  those  hoof -beats,  he  saw  a  solitary  bent 
figure  hurrying  toward  him,  clutching  some- 
thing close  under  its  arm.  An  oldish  man, 
William  thought,  as  the  sound  of  the  horse's 
hoofs  drew  nearer. 

Suddenly  a  bulky  shadow  loomed  in  a 
doorway,  and  fell  upon  the  old  man  as  he 


140  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

passed,  snatching  at  the  booty.  But  the 
clutch  of  avarice  held  fast,  and  before  the 
assailant,  who  appeared  to  be  unarmed,  had 
time  to  deal  a  blow,  William  was  upon  him. 
Not  a  word  was  spoken,  and  in  the  silent 
scuffle,  while  the  lad's  breath  labored,  and 
his  young  muscles  knotted,  the  oldish  man 
sneaked  off. 

But  William's  blood  was  up.  He  had 
fastened  himself  at  the  ruffian's  throat  and, 
while  the  sound  of  hoofs  came  nearer,  he 
held  on  with  a  bull-dog  grip,  unmindful 
of  the  savage  mauling  and  pummelling  he 
got,  as  the  fellow  fought  to  get  loose.  He 
was  no  champion,  this  great  lumbering 
brute  that  fell  upon  old  men  in  the  dark, 
and  his  breath  was  rank  with  liquor.  A 
trained  wrestler  would  have  made  short 
work  of  him.  All  he  wanted  was  to  get 
away,  and  all  William  wanted  was  to  punish 
him,  to  hold  hard  till  those  hoofs  should 
bring  help,  and  Justice  should  get  a  lick 
at  him! 

So  there  was  William's  Willie,  the  fore- 
gone coward,  hanging  on  to  a  red-handed 
ruffian,  with  a  bull-dog  grip!  He  never 
once  thought  of  his  father,  he  never  even 
thought  of  Isabel,  and  least  of  all  did  he 


William1  s  Willie.  141 

think  of  himself,  as  he  kept  that  vicious 
clutch  at  his  enemy's  throat,  while  the 
veins  in  his  own  neck  were  near  to  bursting. 
Indeed  there  was  scant  time  to  think  of 
anything,  before  the  struggling  mass  of 
liquor-soaked  brawn  had  pulled  itself  loose, 
and  dealt  the  boy  a  blow,  the  sheer  weight 
of  which  knocked  him  senseless.  None 
too  soon  either  for  the  varlet's  own  welfare; 
for  at  that  instant  the  cab  pulled  up  at  the 
curb,  and  the  great  bully  went  hulking 
round  the  corner,  intent  only  on  saving  his 
hide. 

As  William  recovered  his  senses,  and  tried 
hard  to  get  his  head  off  the  sidewalk,  where 
it  appeared  to  be  glued  fast,  the  old  man, 
still  clutching  his  bundle  of  pelf,  came 
slinking  out  of  the  shadow.  And  a  husky 
voice  was  audible,  offering  $500.00  for  a 
ride.  The  poor,  scared  creature  did  not  say 
where  to,  as  he  glanced  apprehensively 
over  his  shoulder,  lest  his  enemy  be  lurking 
near. 

But  Pat,  who  was  down  off  his  roost  by 
this,  and  bending  all  his  efforts  to  pulling 
William's  head  loose  from  that  glue,  did 
not  seem  to  be  listening.  So  the  old  man 
came  nearer  and  whispered,  nervously: 


142  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

"  Come,  come!  What  '11  you  take?  What  '11 
you  take?" 

1 '  Yer  blitherin'  idjit ! ' '  cried  Pat ,— he  had  a 
wife  and  childer  at  home,  no  doubt,  and  none 
too  much  spare  cash,  but  also  he  had  a 
warm  Irish  heart  in  his  breast,  and  he  had 
seen  enough,  as  he  rounded  the  corner,  to 
catch  the  gist  of  the  situation, — ' '  Yer  blither- 
in'  idjit!"  he  spat  out.  "I  wouldn't  take 
a  million  dollars  to  carry  you  to  hell !  Here  's 
my  fare,  a  layin'  on  the  bricks;  can't  yer 
see  un  there,  yer  snivellin*  ould  ballyrags?" 

And  the  oldish  man,  who  appeared  to  be 
anything  but  sensitive,  hearing  the  rattle 
of  wheels  in  the  distance,  went  scuttling 
off  in  the  direction  of  the  sound. 

"Here,  me  son, "  Pat  wheedled.  "Git  on 
yer  fate,  an*  coom  alang  wid  me.  Me  ould 
race-harse  '11  be  knowin'  the  way  to  a  dhrap 
o'  whiskey!  Coom,  pick  yersilf  oop,  like 
a  little  man!" 

Then  William,  staggering  to  his  feet,  felt 
the  life  come  back  into  him,  and  with  it  that 
lust  of  battle,  the  righting  courage  of  his 
father  that  had  been  his  pride  and  his  despair. 
And  clutching  Pat's  shoulder,  more  for 
compulsion  than  for  support,  "Couldn't 
we  overhaul  that  coward,  yet?"  he  cried. 


William's  Willie.  143 

As  the  young  fire-eater  crossed  the  bridge 
an  hour  later,  lolling  somewhat  limply 
in  Pat's  cab,  the  books  piled  at  his  feet, 
the  cash-box  on  the  seat  beside  him,  that 
small  parcel  from  the  right-hand  drawer 
buttoned  tight  in  under  his  coat,  he  found 
himself  idly  wondering  whether  he  did  n't 
have  a  headache.  There  was  a  queer  rumpus 
up  there,  which  produced  a  dazed  feeling, 
and  caused  him  to  yearn  for  slumber.  But 
out  of  the  blur  and  the  rumble,  two  very 
clear  resolutions  stood  forth,  which  he  kept 
repeating  to  himself  in  order  to  stay  awake. 

First  then,  he  must  see  to  it  that  Pat 
got  his  $500.00, — always  provided  that  the 
rascal  kept  his  promise  of  not  blabbing; 
and  secondly,  that  that  good  man,  Brady, 
should  never  have  another  thrashing  for 
getting  into  a  fight! 

They  found  James  still  on  the  piazza, 
his  hard-used  leg  propped  up  on  a  second 
chair.  It  was  nearly  one  o'clock,  and  the 
rest  of  the  family,  except  the  youngsters 
at  the  fire,  who  seemed  to  be  making  a 
night  of  it,  had  gone  to  bed.  But  the 
evening  was  mild,  and  the  feather-bed 
arrangement  about  the  game-toe,  weather- 
proof. 


144  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

"We've  got  'em,  Cousin  Jim,"  William 
shouted,  as  he  stumbled  up  the  path, — he 
was  still  a  trifle  shaky  on  his  legs, — while 
Pat  puffed  after  him  with  the  main  bulk 
of  the  spoils.  And  then,  dropping  his 
voice, — "And  you  '11  have  to  pay  the  man 
$500.00!" 

"Are  you  off  your  head?"  James  cried, 
going  promptly  off  his,  while  he  hauled  his 
leg  down,  and  got  on  his  feet. 

"But,  Cousin  Jim,  you  said  you'd  pay 
all  creation!" 

"What  if  I  did?  That 's  not  saying  I  'd 
pay  $500.00 ! "  Then,  as  Pat's  arrival  within 
earshot  forced  a  change  of  tack,  "Here, 
you!"  he  blustered.  "What  are  you  leaving 
your  horse  for?  How  do  you  know  he  '11 
stand?" 

"Wai,  sorr,  I  wouldn't  go  bail  for  un 
mesilf , "  was  the  thoughtful  rejoinder.  "  I  'm 
thinkin'  he  'd  ruther  lay  down!"  And  Wil- 
liam, chuckling  inwardly,  knew  that  Pat's 
cause  was  won. 

As  he  started  to  carry  his  own  load  into 
the  house,  "Shall  I  get  it  out  of  the  cash- 
box?"  he  inquired,  quite  as  if  a  fresh  pocket- 
handkerchief  had  been  in  question. 

"Out  of  the  cash-box!"  James  spluttered. 


William's  Willie.  145 

"  Never  carry  that  amount  in  the  cash-box. 
Don't  sell  goods  over  the  counter. " 

"But  you've  got  it  to-night,  because  I 
heard  you  carrying  on  about  that  crank 
from  somewhere  down-east  that  made  you 
take  cash  this  noon,  too  late  to  get  it  under 


cover." 


"Well,  then,  why  do  you  ask,  since  you 
appear  to  have  taken  charge  of  my  affairs? 
Why  not  go  ahead,  while  you  're  about  it, 
and  clean  me  out?  And — hold  on,  Willie! 
You  '11  find  some  hard  cider  and  doughnuts 
on  the  sideboard.  Fetch  'em  along." 

The  instant  William  was  out  of  hearing, 
a  change  came  over  James.  Laying  hold  of 
Pat's  coat-front,>  and  jerking  him  almost 
off  his  feet,  "How  did  that  boy  get  a  black 
eye?"  he  demanded,  in  a  stage-aside  that 
might  have  been  heard  in  Oliver  Street. 

"Wai,  sorr,  I  dunno's  I  could  say,"  Pat 
replied,  with  great  deliberation,  "unless 
somethin'  might  ha'  hit  un!"  And  William, 
returning  in  time  to  catch  that  cryptic 
utterance,  was  so  moved  to  gratitude  that 
he  tried  his  best  to  make  Pat's  glass  of  cider 
foam  and  look  at  least  like  beer! 

"$500.00!"  James  fumed,  while  Pat  and 
his  racer  went  ambling  off  in  quest  of  more 


146  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

adventure.  "Supposing  we  don't  get  burnt 
out  after  all?  Where  '11  I  be,  then?'1 

"I  should  say  you  'd  be  in  luck,"  William 
hooted,  making  good  his  retreat  down  the 
path. 

"And  I  never  said  thankee,"  Cousin  Jim 
told  himself,  as  he  went  hobbling  into  the 
house.  "Well,  there  's  time  yet." 

And  to  James's  credit  be  it  said,  that 
although  his  worst  forebodings  were  realized, 
and  the  fire  never  got  into  Oliver  Street  at 
all,  it  was  not  long  before  things  were  hap- 
pening at  Spencer  &  Co.'s  which  seemed  to 
indicate  that  a  black  eye,  even  when  dis- 
creetly ignored  by  all  concerned,  may  prove 
quite  as  good  a  stepping-stone  in  a  young 
man's  career  as  the  inkiest  of  inkstands. 

And  when,  a  few  days  after  the  Great 
Fire,  William's  Willie — no  longer  afraid  of 
that  harmless  little  name,  nor  of  anything 
else,  as  far  as  that  goes — concluded  that 
he  was  fit  to  be  seen,  he  went  to  call  upon 
Isabel;  and  before  he  knew  what  he  was 
about,  he  had  told  her  that  he  loved  her. 
It  was  rather  abrupt  of  him,  and  Isabel's 
very  natural  impulse  was  to  temporize, 
as  was  plainly  to  be  seen  in  the  quick  lift 
of  the  head,  and  the  defensive  flash  of  those 


William's  Willie.  147 

level  eyes.  They  fell  however  as  they  met 
his,  where  the  brooding  look  had  given  place 
to  something  altogether  different,  and  as 
luck  would  have  it,  they  fell  on  Brady, 
drinking  in  his  master's  words  with  such 
complacent  relish  that  Isabel  instantly  knew 
that  he  had  peached.  So  what  could  she 
do  but  surrender? 

It  was  some  little  time  after  that  before 
a  lucid  interval  occurred,  and  when  it  did, 
Brady  was  discovered  over  on  the  hearth- 
rug, pretending  to  be  asleep.  Somewhat 
abashed  by  the  implication,  Isabel  cast  about 
for  a  diversion.  Nor  was  it  far  to  seek,  in 
that  damaged  forehead  which,  by  the  way, 
was  not  nearly  as  fit  to  be  seen  as  William 
in  his  impatience  had  made  himself  believe. 

"When  are  you  going  to  tell  me  about 
that?"  she  asked  in  the  most  casual  manner; 
as  if  she  had  not  been  lying  awake  nights, 
thinking  about  it,  ever  since  the  first  rumor 
of  it  set  folks  guessing. 

"Never!"  the  battered  veteran  replied, 
with  great  firmness,  while  Brady,  playing 
'possum  on  the  rug,  dreamily  thumped 
approval. 

"Why, — never?"  she  demanded,  bridling, 
lightly. 


148  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

"Isabel,"  said  William's  Willie,  the  firm- 
ness melting  into  entreaty  which,  if  Brady 
had  but  known,  no  Isabel  alive  could  have 
withstood,  "that  horrid  bump  is  somehow 
just  my  own.  Will  you  let  me  off?" 

"I  suppose  I  must,"  she  answered,  with 
a  little  air  of  resignation.  But  she  had  read 
his  face,  and  her  eyes  were  glistening. 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  there  was  no 
real  secret  between  those  two,  after  all; 
because,  since  she  had  caught  the  essence 
of  it,  the  substance  did  n't  matter.  And 
that  is  what  comes  of  being  on  confidential 
terms  with  a  dog  of  parts.  One  knows 
things  without  being  told. 


V. 
A  BRILLIANT  MATCH. 

EDNA  PRATT  was  on  the  top  of  the 
wave,  and  she  found  the  situation 
highly  exhilarating.  Justly  too,  for 
under  Providence  she,  and  she  alone,  was 
to  be  credited  with  the  happy  stroke  which 
had  placed  her  there.  In  a  word,  her  daugh- 
ter Elsie,  the  beauty  of  the  family, — not 
merely  of  her  own  immediate  family,  be  it 
understood,  but  of  the  whole  connection,— 
was  making  a  brilliant  match,  an  achievement 
the  like  of  which  had  not  heretofore  been 
recorded  in  the  Pratt  family  annals;  and 
Edna,  in  her  swelling  self-gratulation,  would 
hardly  allow  Marcus  Wilby  himself  any 
determining  part  in  the  affair. 

Happily,  however,  the   young   man   was 
quite  unconscious  of  the  extent  of  his  obliga- 
tions  to   his   future   mother-in-law,    and   if 
he  could  not  flatter  himself  that  Elsie  was 
149 


150  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

as  yet  very  deeply  in  love  with  him,  he 
never  doubted  that  she  had  accepted  him 
of  her  own  motion.  For,  was  she  not  an 
American  girl?  And  were  not  American 
girls  proverbially  independent  of  parental 
dictation  in  such  matters?  This  at  least 
was  an  article  of  faith  with  the  bridegroom 
elect,  fresh  from  that  sharply  contrasting 
civilization  which  centres  in  the  Paris  studios. 

But  the  excellent  Marcus, — and  that  the 
heir-apparent  to  the  Wilby  shekels  was  the 
kind  of  young  man  that  gets  called  "ex- 
cellent" was  the  worst  that  could  be  urged 
against  him — was  reckoning  without  a  cer- 
tain crude  force  of  character,  by  virtue  of 
which  Edna  had  established  a  dominant, 
not  to  say  disastrous,  influence  over  this 
favorite  child  of  hers. 

Not  that  Edna  was  of  a  kidney  to  cut 
any  figure  at  all  in  a  tale  of  crime  or  intrigue. 
She  was  merely  a  coarse-grained  egotist, 
endowed  with  but  a  minimum  of  natural 
good  feeling  as  against  a  maximum  of 
worldly  ambition.  And,  for  a  round  dozen 
of  years  now,  both  maximum  and  minimum 
aforesaid  had  been  concentrated  upon  her 
beautiful  daughter.  If  Edna  loved  any- 
thing in  the  world,  or  out  of  it,  which  is 


A  Brilliant  Match.  151 

matter  of  conjecture,  (a  rebel  bullet  by  the 
way  had  made  a  widow  of  her,)  it  was  this 
child,  to  whom  had  been  transmitted,  and 
with  compound  interest,  that  modicum  of 
beauty  which  had  rendered  Edna  Brown, 
the  girl,  so  very  much  more  attractive  than 
the  woman  Edna  Pratt  had  come  to  be. 

Elsie  (or  Bessie,  as  she  was  called  in  the 
day  of  small  things)  had  but  just  crossed 
the  Rubicon  of  her  teens,  when  she  chanced 
to  overhear  from  the  lips  of  her  own  mother 
the  unctuous  statement  that  that  lady's 
daughter  Bessie  had  "the  fatal  gift  of 
beauty/'  This  was  rather  solemnizing  to 
a  girl  of  thirteen,  and  duly  solemnized  she 
was.  Quietly,  lest  her  involuntary  eaves- 
dropping be  discovered,  the  child  stole  to 
her  own  room,  to  see  what  her  looking-glass 
might  have  to  say  about  it.  If  the  upshot 
of  the  interview  proved  disappointing,  this 
was  due  less  to  any  deficiency  in  the  subject 
under  consideration,  than  to  the  circum- 
stance that  Miss  Bessie's  private  ideal  of 
beauty  at  that  period  was  modelled  upon 
the  wax-doll  type,  no  suggestion  of  which 
was  discernible  in  the  charming  little  phiz 
scowling  at  itself  in  the  mirror.  Evidently, 
then,  the  "fatal"  kind  of  beauty  was  not 


152  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

as  pretty  as  the  other,  the  kind  she  had  long 
admired  in  her  little  cousin  Amy  Spencer, 
for  instance,  who  had  flaxen  hair,  and 
dimples,  and  a  pink  and  white  complexion 
of  the  most  orthodox  hue. 

As  Bessie  grew  older,  in  other  words,  as 
she  developed  into  Elsie,  she  also  grew 
wiser.  She  perceived  that,  whether  fatal 
or  not,  this  beauty  which  had  come  her 
way  was  something  that  even  a  wax-doll 
might  envy.  Being,  however,  possessed  of  a 
fair  share  of  the  Pratt  common-sense,  she 
kept  her  head,  thereby  avoiding  the  twin 
pitfalls  of  vanity  and  self-consciousness. 
But  if  she  did  not  spend  an  inordinate  amount 
of  time  before  her  looking-glass,  if  she  did 
not  study  anxiously  the  impression  she 
was  making  upon  others,  it  can  not  be 
denied  that  she  did  come  to  consider  herself 
entitled  to  peculiar  favors  at  the  hands  of 
Fortune.  We  are  all  like  that.  Once  let 
us  get  it  into  our  heads  that  the  orchestra 
stalls  are  our  just  due,  we  are  unable  to 
conceive  of  the  second  gallery  as  having  any 
possible  bearing  upon  our  case.  Yet,  ten 
to  one,  the  gallery  god — most  complacent 
of  deities — is  having  a  far  better  time  of  it 
than  we  are,  and  thinks  himself  a  lucky 


A  Brilliant  Match.  153 

chap  into  the  bargain  to  be  at  the  play  at  all. 

Now  it  will  not  be  supposed  that  Edna's 
deliberate  training  of  her  daughter  to  worldly 
ends  was  lost  upon  so  shrewd  a  body  of 
commentators  as  the  Pratt  family  connection. 
Harriet  Spencer  especially,  the  wax-doll's 
grandmother, — anything  but  a  wax-doll  her- 
self, though  as  handsome  an  old  woman  as 
great  decision  of  character  would  permit, — 
was  in  a  chronic  state  of  disapproval  re- 
garding her  sister-in-law's  "  goings  on." 
Being,  however,  no  scandal-monger,  she  was 
apt  to  reserve  her  animadversions  for  the 
ear  of  her  mother,  Old  Lady  Pratt,  whose 
relish  of  the  humors  of  her  kind  never 
spelled  indiscretion. 

"Well,  mother,"  Harriet  once  remarked, 
at  the  close  of  a  stimulating  interchange  of 
views  on  the  burning  question,  "there 's 
one  comfort  about  Edna.  She 's  not  a 
Pratt." 

"No,"  was  the  old  lady's  devout  re- 
joinder. "But  thank  the  Lord  her  children 
are, — every  one  on  'em!" 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  call 
Elsie  a  Pratt?" 

"Yes,  I  do;  though  she  did  get  her  good 
looks  from  her  mother."  This,  with  one  of 


154  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

those  chuckles  which  betrayed  the  fact  that 
Old  Lady  Pratt  in  her  tenth  decade  was 
still  lamentably  unregenerate.  But  she 
added,  more  seriously,  "Did  you  ever  see 
her  try  to  lie?" 

"Yes,  I  have,"  Harriet  testified,  brighten- 
ing perceptibly. 

"Well,  so  hev  I.  Now  that 's  her  mother, 
plain  's  the  nose  on  her  face.  But — she  can't 
do  it/—n'  that's  her  father.  I  tell  ye, 
Harriet,  say  what  you  please,  that  girl 's  a 
Pratt." 

But,  Pratt  or  no  Pratt,  Elsie  was  too 
deeply  implicated  in  her  mother's  mis- 
doings to  go  scot-free  at  the  family  judgment 
seat.  And,  as  time  went  on,  everybody, 
down  to  the  wax-doll  cousin,  became  aware, 
and  saw  to  it  that  her  men-folks  should 
become  aware,  that  Edna  was  scheming, 
night  and  day,  and  not  without  the  young 
lady's  tacit  connivance,  to  make  a  brilliant 
match  for  Elsie.  Which,  on  the  wax-doll's 
part  at  least,  was  hardly  fair  play.  For 
had  she  not  caught  her  John's  heart  on 
the  rebound?  And  if  Elsie  had  known 
how  to  value  such  a  prize  a  few  years  ago, 
where  would  Amy  have  been  to-day? 

And  Elsie  who,   truth  to  tell,   had  had 


A  Briliant  Match.  155 

rather  a  leaning  to  John,  often  thought  the 
same  thing  of  herself.  Where  would  she 
have  been  to-day,  if  her  mother  had  been 
less  scornful  of  Johnny  Wenham's  pre- 
tensions? Johnny  Wenham  indeed,  whose 
grandfather  had  handled  iron  in  Uncle  Spen- 
cer's store,  whose  own  mother  had  been 
reduced  to  letting  rooms  to  lodgers  when 
her  husband  went  to  the  war  and  left  her 
with  a  brood  of  young  cormorants  on  her 
hands!  Johnny  Wenham  who,  when  all 
was  said,  was  nothing  but  a  bank- teller 
himself,  at  eighteen  hundred  a  year ! 

Early  in  the  proceedings, — for  John  was 
first  in  the  field,  and  his  devotion  was  of  the 
headlong  kind  that  too  often  sweeps  a  girl 
off  her  feet, — Elsie  used  to  brace  her  reso- 
lution on  the  above  oft-reiterated  facts. 
There 's  nothing  like  a  fact,  persistently 
driven  home,  for  taking  the  starch  out  of  a 
fancy.  But  now  that  John  had  forgotten 
his  vows  of  eternal  heart-break,  now  that  he 
had  married  Amy  and  was  quite  unblush- 
ingly  content  with  his  lot,  Elsie  perceived 
how  right  had  been  her  mother's  estimate 
of  such  things. 

They  lived  the  life  of  a  pair  of  turtle-doves, 
John  and  Amy,  and  were  already  possessed 


156  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

of  a  brace  of  fledglings,  but  meagrely  pro- 
vided with  pin-feathers.  If  any  lingering 
pique  attached  to  John's  defection,  it  could 
not  long  survive  the  sight  of  Amy,  opening 
the  door  of  their  little  flat  through  which 
a  smell  of  cooking  issued,  one  baby  tucked 
under  her  arm,  another  dragging  at  her 
skirts. 

Well,  it  took  all  kinds  to  make  a  world, 
Elsie  reflected;  and  not  without  a  sub- 
consciousness  of  the  literal  truth  implied 
in  a  familiar  figure  of  speech.  There  was 
her  sister  Mary  too,  now  seven  years  married, 
cheerfully  roughing  it  on  Fred's  great  cattle- 
ranch,  while  doing  her  part,  as  she  herself 
frankly  boasted,  to  make  the  wilderness 
blossom  like  a  kindergarten.  Drudgery! 
Drudgery!  How  Elsie  hated  the  word! 
Hated  it  by  the  way  far  more  than  she  would 
have  hated  the  thing  itself  when  once  at 
close  quarters  with  it.  For  the  young 
beauty,  of  whom  her  mother  vaunted  that 
she  had  never  been  allowed  to  "lift  a  finger, " 
was  a  girl  of  much  capacity  run  to  waste, 
in  missing  the  exercise  of  which  she  was 
missing  one  of  the  very  best  things  life 
affords. 

Nor   was   there   any   visible   prospect   of 


A  Brilliant  Match.  157 

her  making  good.  For  here  she  was,  at 
twenty-five,  engaged  to  Marcus  Wilby, 
an  excellent  young  man,  of  abundant  means, 
to  whom  her  lightest  wish  was  law.  What 
wonder  that  Edna  was  at  the  top  of  the 
wave, — so  ostentatiously  so  indeed,  that 
the  rest  of  the  clan  found  it  quite  impossible 
properly  to  rejoice  in  that  most  propitious 
of  happenings,  a  family  love-affair. 

The  Pratts  as  a  race  thought  well  of 
marriage,  and  usually  took  an  engagement 
at  its  face  value.  Old  Lady  Pratt  especially, 
who  was  nearing  her  finish,  had,  in  this 
instance,  peculiar  cause  for  satisfaction, 
since  she  had  been  apprehensive  lest  this 
most  dilatory  of  her  own  immediate  grand- 
daughters might  not  be  happily  launched 
on  the  high  seas  of  matrimony  before  she 
herself  should  be  called  to  adventure  that 
other  uncharted  sea  whither  all  are  bound 
at  last.  Yet  even  she  could  have  wished 
that  her  daughter-in-law  had  borne  herself 
more  modestly. 

"Well,  Edna,"  she  remarked,  with  a 
distinct  trace  of  asperity.  "It's  better 
late  than  never.  But  I  must  say  I  sh'd  feel 
safer  about  Bessie  ef  she  'd  got  broke  in  a 
mite  earlier." 


1 58  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

"I  guess  there  won't  be  any  breaking  in, " 
Edna  retorted,  with  commendable  spirit. 
"Marcus  Wilby  worships  the  ground  she 
treads  on." 

"More  'n  like,"  was  the  pregnant  com- 
ment. "But,  as  I  said  before,  it  's  better 
late  than  never." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  that," 
Edna  declared,  bridling,  more  on  her  own 
account  than  on  Elsie's.  "She's  just  the 
age  I  was  when  I  married  William." 

"Mebbe  so;  but  then — William  was  a 
widower." 

If  the  old  lady's  line  of  reasoning  was 
obscure,  the  sting  of  the  reminder  was  no 
less  telling,  and,  to  her  notion,  richly  de- 
served. For  this  was  not  Edna's  first 
offending.  Only  the  previous  autumn,  when 
William's  only  son  and  namesake  had 
become  engaged  to  that  charming  Isabel 
Allen,  flower  of  one  of  the  very  best  Dun- 
bridge  families,  Edna  had  made  a  personal 
grievance  of  it  because,  forsooth,  the  girl 
chanced  to  be  a  niece  of  his  father's  first 
wife. 

"Very  bad  taste,  /  call  it,"  she  had  de- 
clared, for  the  benefit  of  all  whom  it  might 
or  might  not  concern, — "to  go  and  marry 


A  Brilliant  Match.  159 

into  that  family.  An  Isabel  Allen  too, 
exactly  the  same  name.  Why,  I  call  it 
positively  indelicate ! ' ' 

"But  he's  so  happy,  mother,"  Elsie 
once  ventured  to  urge;  for  she  had  a  soft 
spot  in  her  heart  for  this  young  brother, — 
one  of  the  spots  that  Edna  had  neglected 
to  sterilize. 

"Happy!  How  long  do  you  suppose 
that  sort  of  thing  lasts  ?  " 

Such  heresies  and  worse  had  reached  Old 
Lady  Pratt 's  ears,  confirming  her  distrust 
of  Edna's  principles.  Hence,  although  she 
came  perilously  near  being  an  advocate  of 
"matrimony  at  any  price,"  she  could  not 
forbear  a  thrust  where,  as  in  this  instance, 
that  admirable  instrument  of  destiny  ap- 
peared to  be  serving  as  cat's  paw  for  the 
acquisition  of  chestnuts. 

No  mere  verbal  thrusts,  however,  could 
dislodge  Edna  from  her  precarious  eminence. 
Elsie  was  engaged,  engaged  to  the  sole 
heir  of  a  very  rich  man,  as  riches  were  then 
measured,  and  Edna  was  on  the  top  of  the 
wave. 

That,  alas,  was  more  than  could  be  said 
of  Elsie  herself,  or  of  the  excellent  Marcus 
either.  And  really  it  is  high  time  that  the 


160  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

latter  should  be  formally  introduced;  though, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  holding  himself 
so  much  in  the  background  at  this  juncture 
that  he  was  in  danger  of  being  overlooked 
altogether.  This  would  have  been  a  gross 
injustice,  since  Marcus  was  by  no  means  a 
nonentity.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  a 
young  man  of  much  character  and  a  good 
deal  of  ability,  handicapped,  but  in  no 
sense  perverted,  by  an  overplus  of  worldly 
goods.  The  handicap  consisted  primarily 
in  a  liberty  to  spend  the  best  years  of  his 
life  in  foreign  studios,  vainly  striving  to 
become  a  portrait-painter,  when  Nature 
intended  him  to  do  extremely  clever  character 
sketches  in  pen  and  ink.  And  by  the  same 
fortuitous  handicap  he  had  latterly  been 
betrayed  into  winning  the  hand  of  a  girl 
who  made  no  real  pretence  of  loving  him. 

He  had  first  met  Elsie,  now  some  six 
months  ago,  at  her  cousin,  Dick  Spencer's 
house  at  Wilbyville,  seat  of  the  great  Wilby 
cotton-mills,  as  also  of  the  Dunlap  Manu- 
facturing Company  with  which  Dick  was 
connected.  The  young  artist — he  was  at 
this  time  barely  turned  thirty — was,  as 
Elsie  knew,  on  the  point  of  returning  to 
Paris  after  his  annual  visit  to  America. 


A  Brilliant  Match.  161 

Consequently  when,  at  that  first  meeting,  she 
casually  inquired  as  to  his  date  of  sailing,  and 
he  replied  that  his  plans  were  unsettled, 
both  knew  exactly  what  had  happened  to 
him. 

The  discovery  gave  Elsie  something  of  a 
turn.  Not  because  of  anything  unusual 
in  the  occurrence  itself,  certainly  not  because 
of  any  hastily  conceived  bias,  favorable  or 
otherwise,  toward  the  excellent  Marcus. 
But  because  of  her  instant  recognition  of 
him  as  the  "logical  candidate"  so  to  speak, 
of  her  mother's  long  and  arduous  campaign. 
She  could  almost  hear  that  good  lady's 
purr  of  satisfaction  at  this  benignant  overture 
of  Fortune. 

"Do  you  find  it  so  hard  to  tear  yourself 
away  from  Wilbyville?"  she  inquired,  with 
light  sarcasm.  That  purr  of  satisfaction 
was  setting  her  nerves  on  edge. 

"Oh,  no;  it's  not  that,"  was  the  best 
poor  Marcus  could  muster  from  the  debris 
of  his  wits.  At  which  Elsie  smiled,  a  smile 
of  indulgent  comprehension,  in  itself  so 
enchanting  that  no  one  could  take  it  amiss. 

It  was  Sunday  evening,  and  "high  tea"; 
as  great  an  altitude  as  Dick  and  Julie  in 
their  young  menage  had  yet  risen  to.  The 


1 62  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

" logical  candidate,"  all  unconscious  of  such 
factitious  advantage  as  the  term  implies,  was 
seated  between  Elsie  and  his  hostess  who, 
as  the  modest  function  progressed,  beamed 
with  pleasure  at  finding  herself  egregiously 
neglected.  For  with  Julie,  herself  little 
better  than  a  bride,  that  match-making  in- 
stinct which  springs  from  a  fellow-feeling  was 
already  in  full  flower. 

"Did  you  ever  see  anything  so  sudden?" 
she  triumphed,  the  moment  she  could  get 
private  speech  of  Dick.  "He  only  spoke 
to  me  twice,  the  whole  time,  and  he  never 
so  much  as  looked  at  Hannah 's  delicious 
waffles!" 

•  "That 's  just  the  plague  of  it,"  Dick  de- 
murred; for  he  too  was  experiencing  stirrings 
of  a  fellow-feeling.  "The  poor  chap  was 
so  flattened  out  that  he  did  n't  do  himself 
justice.  I  don't  think  Elsie  cottoned  to 
him;  do  you?" 

"Perhaps  not,"  was  the  reluctant  ad- 
mission. "I  'm  afraid  she  's  rather  spoiled." 

"Oh,  well;  it  11  all  come  out  right  in 
the  end,"  Dick  opined,  cheerfully;  for  he 
delighted  in  Julie's  artless  manoeuvring. 
"Aunt  Edna  11  see  to  that." 

"  Is  your  Aunt  Edna  such  a  matchmaker?  " 


A  Brilliant  Match.  163 

she  innocently  inquired,  recognizing  for  the 
first  time  a  bond  of  sympathy  with  that 
rather  unprepossessing  relative-in-law. 

"Maker  or  breaker,  according  to  circum- 
stances, "  was  the  oracular  response.  Whence 
we  may  conclude  that  although  Harriet 
was  herself  no  scandal-monger,  she  had  been 
unable  to  prevent  her  grandson  getting 
wind  of  those  "goings  on"  which  she  so 
sincerely  deplored. 

Nor  was  Dick  far  afield  in  his  rough  and 
ready  summing  up  of  his  friend's  case. 
Marcus  Wilby  was  badly  flattened  out, 
and  his  conversation  likewise.  Incredible  as 
it  may  seem,  what  this  young  man  of  the 
world  was  undergoing  was  nothing  more  nor 
less  than  the  discomfiture  of  the  novice. 
Fancies  he  had  had  in  plenty,  will-o'-the- 
wisps  which  he  had  chased  a  little  way,  but 
never  far  enough  to  get  caught  in  the  bog. 
But  here  was  something  totally  different, 
something  which  at  first  sight  he  recognized 
as  a  lodestar.  And  so  immediate  and  so 
irresistible  was  its  fascination  that,  like 
the  tyro  at  golf  (of  a  later  period),  he  failed 
to  keep  his  eye  on  the  ball. 

One  effective  stroke,  however,  he  did  man- 
age to  get  in ;  for,  before  the  party  broke  up, 


164  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

he  had  secured  from  Elsie  the  promise  of  a 
few  sittings. 

The  fact  that  she  agreed  to  these  with  a 
full  consciousness  of  the  inevitable  outcome 
must,  it  is  to  be  feared,  implicate  her  beyond 
recall  in  her  mother's  machinations.  She 
did  know  what  she  was  about,  and  she 
did  intend  to  play  the  game  to  the  end,— 
keeping  her  eye,  too,  had  she  but  known  it, 
unflinchingly  upon  the  ball.  But  if  no 
nice  girl  ever  did  such  a  thing  before,  there 
are  nevertheless  quite  a  number  of  wise 
old  saws,  touching  the  bending  of  juvenile 
twigs  and  so  on,  which  might  be  adduced 
in  extenuation.  Besides  which,  as  any  un- 
prejudiced critic  will  allow,  if  you  are  under 
the  obsession  of  a  fatal  gift,  you  may  as  well 
wash  your  hands  of  the  consequences. 

At  any  rate,  Elsie  did  promise  the  sittings, 
thereby  causing  Marcus  to  walk  away  from 
the  tea-party  on  air — than  which,  to  be  sure, 
no  procedure  would  seem  to  be  more  natural 
in  a  person  under  the  immediate  sway  of  a 
lodestar.  The  only  wonder  is,  when  you  come 
to  think  of  it,  that  so  many  good  people  who 
profess  subjection  to  sidereal  influence  are 
able  to  keep  in  touch  with  solid  earth  at  all. 

The   sittings   went   off   better   than   that 


A  Brilliant  Match.  165 

first  encounter.  Partly  because  Marcus  for- 
got himself  and  his  agitations  in  his  eagerness 
to  do  justice  to  his  subject,  and  partly  because 
Elsie  forgot  everything  else,  even  the  mater- 
nal purr,  in  talk  of  Europe,  of  which  she 
was,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  getting 
her  fill.  And  Marcus,  finding  that  no 
topic  brought  so  delectable  a  glow  into  her 
face,)  was  quick  to  take  the  cue. 

"I  wonder  you  can  stay  away  so  long," 
she  said,  one  day.  "It  must  be  a  wonderful 
life  over  there." 

He  did  not  answer  at  once.  He  was  won- 
dering whether  any  other  fellow — Bou- 
digne  for  instance,  with  his  Prix  de  Rome, 
or  Nick  Belton,  the  little  chap  from  Iowa 
who  made  the  Salon  last  year — would  have 
known  how  to  catch  that  look,  which  seemed 
less  a  matter  of  line  and  color  than  of  in- 
dwelling light.  And,  in  truth,  Elsie's  grace 
of  countenance,  being  in  its  essence  mobile, 
was  as  difficult  to  capture  and  fix  on  canvas 
as  if  it  had  really  been  the  emanation  of  a 
lovely  soul,  a  possession  which  no  one  but 
Marcus  Wilby  would  have  felt  quite  safe 
in  ascribing  to  her. 

At  last,  having  satisfied  himself  that 
neither  Boudigne,  that  blatant  materialist, 


1 66  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

nor  little  Nick  himself,  could  paint  a  soul, 
he  answered:  "It  is — a  wonderful  life. 
But" —  with  a  tentative  glance,  lest  that 
look  should  elude  his  brush  altogether — 
"may  not  life  be  wonderful  anywhere?" 

Marcus  never  hesitated  to  say  the  obvious 
thing,  provided  it  was  also  true.  He  did 
not  always  realize  that  a  remark  fresh  from 
the  mint  of  his  own  experience  might  prove 
a  platitude  scarce  worth  the  coining.  But 
Elsie,  whose  sense  of  values  was  very  keen, 
coolly  rejected  the  humble  offering. 

"I've  never  found  it  so,"  she  returned, 
ungraciously  enough. 

He  had  seen  the  light  go  out,  and  a  quick 
compunction  seized  him. 

"That  doesn't  seem  fair,"  he  ventured. 

"Why  not?" 

"One  who  makes  life  beautiful  for  others 
should  find  it  so  herself. " 

All  his  heart  was  in  the  words,  but  not 
in  his  tone  as  he  spoke  them.  He  might 
have  been  enunciating  an  axiom  of  the 
studios.  She  half  guessed,  but  only  half, 
the  feeling  he  was  so  rigorously  repressing, 
and,  impatient  of  his  halting  speech,  she 
inquired,  flippantly,  "Aren't  you  mixing 
me  up  with  Julie?" 


r/ 


Elsie 

But  Elsie,  -whose  sense  of  values  was  very  keen, 
coolly  rejected  the  humble  offering. 


A  Brilliant  Match.  167 

The  sittings  were  held  in  Julie's  parlor. 
It  was  morning,  and  the  young  chatelaine 
could  be  heard  stepping  lightly  about  the 
house,  intent,  as  Elsie  knew,  upon  "  making 
life  beautiful"  for  Dick. 

"No;  I  was  not  thinking  of  Mrs.  Spencer," 
Marcus  replied,  gravely. 

He  felt  rebuked  for  excess  of  feeling.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  had  shouted  his 
secret  from  the  house-tops;  while  Elsie  was 
wishing,  irritably,  that  he  would  give  over 
whispering  behind  his  hand. 

"That 's  why  you  can't  paint, "  his  fellow- 
countrymen  at  the  Atelier  used  to  say,  with 
the  brutal  frankness  of  their  guild.  "You  're 
a  hidebound  Yankee.  You  'd  rather  bust 
your  biler  than  let  yourself  go." 

And  here,  in  this  still  more  critical  em- 
prise, not  for  a  moment  did  he  let  himself 
go.  Not  a  sign  did  he  display  of  that  ardor, 
by  force  of  which  John  Wenham,  for  instance, 
the  hopelessly  ineligible  Johnny,  had  so 
nearly  swept  his  first  love  off  her  feet.  Bent 
on  consuming  his  own  smoke,  lest  perchance 
it  incommode  the  goddess,  poor  Marcus 
consumed  his  own  fires  as  well;  so  well 
indeed,  that  Elsie,  lacking  the  insight  of  a 
bond-fide  goddess,  came  to  regard  him  as 


1 68  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

rather  lukewarm.  And  when,  a  few  weeks 
later,  there  in  her  mother's  house,  where 
she  had  been  so  assiduously  taught  the  true 
values  of  life,  she  promised  to  marry  him, 
there  was  no  better  guarantee  of  happiness 
in  the  pledge,  than  guarantee  of  a  successful 
portrait  in  the  sittings  she  had  accorded 
him.  That  the  portrait  was  a  brilliant 
success  Marcus  would  have  been  the  last 
to  claim.  Then  how  about  the  girl  herself, 
he  might  well  have  questioned,  now  that 
she  had  engaged  for  what  it  is  perhaps  not 
too  fanciful  to  designate  as  a  lifelong  sitting? 
These  were  speculations  with  which  Elsie 
did  not  propose  to  concern  herself.  That 
she  should  accept  him  had  been  a  foregone 
conclusion.  Indeed  Edna,  in  the  zeal  with 
which  she  espoused  the  cause  of  this  unex- 
ceptionable suitor,  was  doing  but  scant  jus- 
tice to  her  own  educational  methods.  For 
so  carefully  had  the  twig  been  bent  that  the 
tree  might  safely  have  been  trusted  to 
incline  accordingly.  And  if  Elsie  not  only 
suffered,  but  positively  invited,  those  prod- 
dings  and  preachments  which  were  so  freely 
administered,  who  can  say  that  it  was  not 
with  a  sneaking  desire  to  clinch  the  responsi- 
bility, there  where  it  properly  belonged  ? 


A  Brilliant  Match.  169 

The  first  time  Marcus  Wilby  kissed  her, 
he  knew  that  she  did  not  love  him;  but  also 
he  knew,  as  he  had  not  known  before,  how 
desperately  he  loved  her.  And  promptly 
the  hidebound  Yankee  took  command,  the 
Yankee  who  could  not  let  himself  go,  and 
who,  by  the  same  token,  would  not  let  go 
anything  else,  whether  semblance  or  sub- 
stance, on  which  he  had  fairly  set  his 
grip.  Heedful,  therefore,  lest  he  forfeit  the 
semblance  he  had  won,  and  which  he  was 
resolved  that  nothing  short  of  grim  Fate 
should  wrest  from  him,  he  refrained  from 
pressing  the  advantage  of  his  position.  In 
so  much  that  from  that  hour  it  was  but  a 
seemingly  perfunctory  salute  that  he  be- 
stowed upon  her,  and  the  girl  began  to  feel 
as  if  being  engaged,  as  far  as  that  went, 
were  a  negligible  condition. 

If  a  teazing  sense  of  something  missed, 
or  something  hovering,  did  beset  her  from 
time  to  time,  that  might  be  fairly  charged 
to  the  account  of  her  brother  William.  What 
business  had  he  to  be  so  absurdly  happy 
in  his  long-drawn-out  engagement?  Why 
must  he,  who  had  n't  yet  scraped  together 
pennies  enough  to  get  married  on,  go  about 
looking  as  if  he  had  struck  a  gold-mine? 


1 70  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

William  had  been  a  quiet,  reserved  boy, 
whom  nobody  seemed  to  know  very  well, 
plodding  to  his  daily  work  in  the  city, 
plodding  back  again,  consorting  chiefly  with 
Brady,  the  cur- terrier  that  he  had  picked 
up  on  the  street.  And  all  of  a  sudden  this 
thing  had  happened  to  him.  What  was 
there  so  wonderful  about  Isabel  Allen, 
Elsie  would  like  to  know?  What  was  there 
so  wonderful  about  William  himself,  for 
the  matter  of  that?  And  why,  of  all  things, 
should  she  puzzle  her  head  over  a  boy-and- 
girl  affair  like  theirs?  She  was  only  thank- 
ful that  her  little  brother  was  getting  his 
innings  at  last,  for  somehow  he  never  seemed 
to  have  had  much  fun  before.  She  hoped 
he  might  be  a  long  time  finding  out  that 
that  sort  of  thing  did  n't  last. 

Whence  it  may  be  justly  inferred  that 
Elsie  still  regarded  her  mother  as  the  ultimate 
authority  in  matters  relating  to  "that  sort 
of  thing." 

Meanwhile  there  was  the  trousseau  to 
distract  one's  thoughts,  and  what  with  the 
ambitions  that  visit  the  top  of  the  wave,  and 
the  steady  undertow  of  a  too  rapidly  drain- 
ing exchequer,  the  effort  of  living  up  to  the 
situation  was  proving  to  Edna  at  least 


A  Brilliant  Match.  171 

anything  but  a  negligible  proposition.  Val- 
iantly this  devoted  parent  laid  siege  to 
dry-goods  and  linen-drapers*  shops,  achieving 
unheard-of  bargains;  early  and  late  she 
toiled  with  dressmaker  and  seamstress. 
Even  Elsie,  usually  exempt,  was  pressed 
into  the  service,  and  found  to  her  surprise 
that  that  hitherto  unlifted  finger  of  hers 
took  very  kindly  to  homely  activities.  Once, 
to  be  sure,  she  caught  herself  wondering 
whether  Marcus  would  ever  guess  who  had 
fashioned  a  certain  muslin  fichu  designed 
to  be  worn  crossed  on  the  bosom,  a  la  Martha 
Washington.  And  swiftly  a  nervous  color 
flushed  her  cheek,  and  throwing  down  the 
filmy  substance,  she  remarked,  crossly,  that 
she  was  tired  of  the  thing  and  Miss  Simpkins 
would  have  to  finish  making  it. 

Her  mother  glanced  up,  anxiously  alert. 
It  was  not  the  first  sign  of  unrest  that_she 
had  observed. 

"Go  and  take  a  walk,  Elsie, "  she  com- 
manded. "You  look  cross  and  tired." 

"I  am  cross  and  tired. " 

"Well,  I  can't  have  that.  What  would 
poor  Marcus  say?"  Miss  Simpkins  had 
opportunely  slipped  down-stairs  to  press  a 
seam. 


1 72  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

"I  don't  care  what  poor  Marcus  would 
say.  You  know  I  don't.  What  's  the  good 
of  pretending?" 

"Now,  Elsie,"  her  mother  admonished. 
"This  will  never  do.  You've  got  to  care 
what  he  says,  and  what  he  thinks  too, — at 
least  until  you  're  married." 

"And  then  be  as  cross  and  tired  as  I 
like?" 

"There  won't  be  anything  to  make  you 
cross  and  tired  when  you  have  twelve 
thousand  a  year.  That 's  what  his  father 
is  going  to  allow  him,  is  n't  it?" 

"I  don't  know,  and  I  don't  care,  what 
Mr.  Wilby  is  going  to  allow  his  son." 

"That's  sheer  affectation,  Elsie,"  her 
mother  declared,  severely.  She  had  always 
allowed  her  daughter  considerable  latitude 
of  speech,  but  this  bordered  upon  pro- 
fanity. "You  do  know,  because  he  told  me 
himself,  and  I  told  you.  And  if  you  don't 
care,  you  're  a  very  foolish  and  ungrateful 
girl,  after  all  I  've  done  for  you." 

This  rather  involved  reasoning  was  per- 
fectly intelligible  to  Elsie.  It  had  been  her 
mother's  doing;  she  had  no  mind  to  deny 
that. 

"Well  then,"  she  conceded.     "Supposing 


A  Brilliant  Match.  173 

I  get  cross  and  tired  on  twelve  thousand 
a  year.  What  then?'* 

"Oh,  that  will  be  his  look-out,"  'Edna 
returned,  complacently.  "But  now,  while 
I  am  responsible  for  you,  I  can't  have  you 
fretting  and  fussing.  You  won't  have  any 
looks  left." 

Elsie  regarded  her  mother  moodily.  Was 
it  possible  that  she  used  to  be  a  beauty? 
And  her  father?  Had  he  just  let  her  fret 
and  fuss,  and  spoil  her  looks?  Did  n't  they 
care,  when  once  they  had  married  a  girl 
and  made  sure  of  her?  Did  n't  they  care 
any  more?  Well, — all  the  better.  It  would 
certainly  be  very  awkward  to  have  Marcus 
persist  in  caring,  when  she  did  n't  care 
herself. 

By  this,  she  was  walking  rapidly  along 
the  sidewalk,  headed  for  she  knew  not 
where.  It  was  late  afternoon  of  a  September 
day.  As  she  turned  a  corner,  she  espied 
William,  striding  toward  her  on  his  way 
out  from  town,  a  tell-tale  bunch  of  pinks 
in  his  hand,  that  he  had  bought  for  a  few 
pennies  at  a  street  corner. 

At  sight  of  his  sister  he  waved  his  hat, 
but  the  pinks  he  kept  discreetly  in  the 
background. 


174  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

"Out  for  a  walk?"  he  called. 

"Yes;  don't  you  want  to  take  me  along, 
as  far  as  Isabel's?  I  see  you  're  going 
there." 

"Are  you?1'  he  asked,  while  his  face  fell. 

"Only  to  the  gate,  you  silly  boy!" 

William  laughed. 

"How  you  girls  do  see  through  a  fellow!" 
he  exclaimed.  "Now  Isabel's  the  most 
perfectly—  and  as  brother  and  sister 
walked  briskly  along  under  the  maple-trees, 
which  were  still  pretending  that  they  had 
no  idea  of  ever  changing  color,  he  launched 
forth  upon  a  panegyric  touching  Isabel's 
astounding  penetration  which  threatened  to 
last  to  the  Allen  gate. 

"William,"  Elsie  asked,  abruptly,  though 
with  the  most  curious  feeling  that  she  had 
better  leave  touchstones  alone.  "How  did 
you  ever, — well,  how  did  you — know?" 

"Know?    Know  what?" 

"That  she  wras  so — wonderful?" 

"How  did  I  know,  Elsie?  How  did  I 
know?  Why,  the  first  time  I  saw  her, — 
really  saw  her,  you  understand,  not  just 
looked  at  her  the  way  you  look  at  a  mere 
person, — I  knew  she  was  all  there  was, — 
just  all  there  was." 


A  Brilliant  Match.  175 

"  Oh, "  she  returned,  with  difficulty  keeping 
pace  with  him;  for  his  long  legs  were  making 
record  time  as  they  neared  the  goal.  "And — 
Isabel?  Do  }rou  suppose  she  thinks  you 
are  all  there  is?" 

"Thinks  it,  Elsie?"  And  the  long  legs 
came  to  a  full  stop.  "But  I  am — I  am  all 
there  is,  for  her.  Do  you  suppose  I  'd 
have  her,  on  any  other  terms?" 

How  sure  of  himself  he  was,  how  sure 
of  being  all  there  was,  to  Isabel!  Yet,  as 
they  started  off  again,  a  sudden  shyness 
took  him,  and,  glancing  sidewise  at  his 
sister,  he  said,  rather  shamefacedly:  "You 
should  n't  make  me  explain  things  that  you 
must  understand,  you  and  Marcus,  as  well 
as  I  do.  As  if  you  did  n't  know  that  he 
was  just  all  there  is,  for  you!" 

The  brilliant  match  was  to  be  consummated 
in  a  month  now;  the  time  had  almost  come 
for  putting  her  mother's  precepts  to  the 
test.  And  William's?  Would  that  test  be 
as  easy  to  meet?  As  Elsie  turned  again 
toward  home,  the  spring  had  quite  gone 
out  of  her  step — that  spring  that  she  had 
caught  of  William.  A  dull  resentment  had 
laid  hold  upon  her,  resentment  against 
Marcus  for  holding  himself  so  cheap. 


176  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

"Do  you  think  I  'd  have  her,  on  any  other 
terms?  "  William  had  cried,  in  hot  repudiation. 

If  Marcus  were  like  that — if  he  were  like 
that!  Well,  and  what  then?  She  simply 
wouldn't  be  going  to  marry  him;  that  was 
all.  There  wouldn't  be  any  Europe,  any 
big  income  for  her  mother  to  fling  up  at 
her.  There  would  n't  be  any  fichu  a  la 
Martha  Washington  either,  which  Marcus 
must  not  be  tempted  to  study  too  closely. 
Would  she  be  glad,  or  sorry?  Which? 

No;  Elsie  was  not  on  the  top  of  the  wave. 
She  was  not  there  when  its  crest  was  gleaming 
in  the  sun;  she  was  not  there  when  it  toppled 
over  and  came  crashing  and  thundering 
down.  Edna  it  was  who  got  the  tumble 
and  the  drenching,  and  had  to  make  her 
way  as  best  she  could  to  dry  land.  And 
Elsie  merely  stood  on  the  shore  and  looked 
on,  wondering  stupidly  what  would  happen 
next. 

The  first  thing  that  happened,  after  the 
papers  had  printed  themselves  black  with 
news  of  Edna's  discomfiture, — for  that  was 
all  the  poor  woman  was  capable  of  seeing 
in  the  great  financial  disaster, — was  a  letter 
from  Marcus.  It  was  very  brief  and  very 
friendly, — a  model  of  self-restraint. 


A  Brilliant  Match.  177 

Elsie  must  not  worry  about  them.  Things 
were  not  quite  so  bad  as  they  looked.  Every- 
body knew  that  his  father  had  merely  got 
caught  in  the  great  panic  which  was  sweeping 
over  the  country,  and  that  he  would  even- 
tually meet  his  obligations,  dollar  for  dollar. 
Meanwhile,  his  mother  had  a  competence 
of  her  own,  so  that  she  was  provided  for. 
She  sent  her  love  to  Elsie,  and  the  dear  old 
pater  sent  his  too. 

It  was  only  in  a  postscript  that  Marcus 
added:  "I  shall  be  over  in  a  few  days,  as 
soon  as  they  can  spare  me.  And  then 
everything  shall  be  exactly  as  you  wish.'* 
There  was  nothing  in  that  carefully  re- 
strained statement  to  indicate  that  he  was 
signing  his  surrender  to  grim  Fate.  And 
yet,  everything  was  to  be  exactly  as  Elsie 
wished. 

Well,  there  was  only  one  thing  to  wish, 
of  course.  Her  mother  was  quite  right. 
She  must  ask  to  be  released.  That  was 
perfectly  clear;  wras  due,  indeed,  to  Marcus 
himself.  Even  if  she  had — well — felt  differ- 
ently about  him,  she  would  not  have  been 
justified  in  holding  him  to  his  engagement 
now,  when  she  could  be  nothing  but  a  drag 
upon  him.  Oh,  yes ;  that  was  perfectly  clear. 


1 78  Later  Pratt  Portrait* . 

She  wondered  why  she  did  not  find  herself 
thinking  more  about  Europe,  more  about 
her  own  future.  She  felt  quite  as  if  she 
did  n't  have  any  future.  It  was  Marcus 
she  was  thinking  of,  Marcus,  who  could  n't 
be  spared  just  yet.  How  they  must  be 
leaning  upon  him — the  old  people!  Yes, 
he  was  the  kind  of  man  one  would  depend 
upon  in  time  of  trouble;  she  could  readily 
understand  that.  She  could  picture  him 
to  herself,  sharing  their  burdens,  feeling  it 
all  with  them,  feeling  it  with  them  so  much 
that  he  found  it  natural  to  suppose  that 
they  must  be  her  first  thought  too.  She 
must  n't  worry  about  them.  Of  course  not ; 
she  had  no  idea  of  such  a  thing.  Well,  then, 
what  was  it  that  she  was  worrying  about? 
Not  about  herself;  somehow  she  felt  mortally 
tired  of  herself.  And  yet,  she  was  worrying, 
worrying.  Could  it  be  about  Marcus?  Could 
it  be  a  dread  lest  he  should  misconstrue  her 
action?  That  was  really  all  there  was  to 
consider  as  far  as  he  was  concerned.  For 
she  could  not  really  believe  that  he  would 
so  much  mind  letting  her  go,  when  it  came 
to  the  point.  She  could  not  have  meant 
very  much  to  him,  these  many  weeks,  since 
she  had  been  wearing  his  ring. 


A  Brilliant  Match.  179 

A  single  diamond  it  was,  not  over  large, 
as  her  mother  would  have  preferred,  but 
of  the  very  first  water.  Merely  the  whitest 
and  most  perfect  stone  the  jeweller  could 
find  in  the  country.  So  Marcus  had  told 
her,  and  then  had  apologized  for  making 
so  much  of  it.  And  she  had  not  let  him 
see  that  she  understood  how  he  meant  its 
perfectness  as  a  tribute  to  her,  only  that 
he  was  too  reticent  to  say  so.  No,  she  had 
never  met  him  half  way.  He  had  never 
possessed  anything  at  all  in  her,  beyond 
something  to  be  looked  at,  something  to  be 
considered  and  deferred  to,  something  willing 
to  suffer  a  gingerly  caress,  only  it  must  be 
very  gingerly  indeed.  It  was  no  doubt  all  a 
surface  matter  with  him,  as  with  her.  His 
real  heart  was  with  his  father  and  mother, 
and  most  of  all,  with  the  "dear  old  pater," 
so  cruelly  caught  in  the  great  panic. 

And  Elsie  let  her  mother  talk  and  ex- 
pound, as  she  made  her  way,  floundering 
and  sputtering  to  shore,  and  it  is  to  be 
feared  that  she  paid  very  little  heed. 

It  was  nearly  a  week  later  that  she  came 
in  from  a  morning  walk, — it  was  early 
October  now,  and  the  maples  had  been 
caught  changing  color  at  last, — to  find  her 


l8o  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

mother  in  a  high  state  of  excitement.  Marcus 
Wilby  had  been  there,  and  had  behaved 
extremely  well.  She  would  say  that  much 
for  him,  if  he  had  put  her  to  very  serious 
inconvenience  and  expense,  through  his 
imprudent  behavior  a  few  months  ago. 

"I  was  of  course  very  sympathetic," 
Edna  announced,  "and  I  was  at  pains  to 
show  him  what  an  interest  I  took  in  his 
unfortunate  affairs.  I  said  I  understood 
that  his  mother  was  well  off,  and  no  doubt 
she  would  do  something  for  him.  But  he 
seemed  rather  offish  about  that, — should  n't 
wonder  if  she  was  close, — and  said  he  pro- 
posed to  get  on  his  own  legs.  Not  a  very- 
refined  expression,  I  must  say.  He  said 
a  little  roughing  it  never  hurt  a  man,  and 
I  put  in,  '  No,  that  sort  of  thing  did  n't  hurt 
a  man.1  He  took  the  hint  at  once,  and  said 
that  he  had  no  right  to  expect  you  to  accept 
such  a  change  of  prospects.  I  don't  know 
that  he  put  it  just  that  way,  but  that  was 
what  he  meant.  I  said, '  Of  course  not ' ;  that 
you  would  not  consider  yourself  at  all  the 
wife  for  a  poor  man.  I  was  glad  he  had  so 
much  right  feeling,  and  that  I  would  tell 
you  what  he  had  said.  He  said  he  preferred 
telling  you  himself,  and  that  he  would  look 


A  Brilliant  Match.  181 

in  again  at  twelve  o'clock.  But  really, 
Elsie,  I  should  think  it  might  be  quite  as  well 
if  you  did  n't  see  him.  You  could  have  an 
engagement  you  know,  at  the  dentist's  or 
somewhere.  I  would  make  it  all  right,  and 
when " 

"I  shall  see  him,"  said  Elsie,  in  a  hard, 
expressionless  voice.  She  had  not  taken 
off  her  coat  and  hat,  nor  had  she  seated 
herself. 

"Very  well,"  her  mother  answered,  from 
her  comfortable  easy-chair.  "You'll  do  as 
you  please.  And  I  suppose  after  all  you  've 
got  to  give  him  back  his  ring.  But  you 
need  n't  look  so  sober  about  it.  I  'm  sure 
you  never  pretended  to  care  anything  about 
the  man  himself,  and  as  for  all  the  rest  of 
it,  there  's  no  use  in  crying  over  spilt  milk. 
I  'm  sure  if  I  can  bear  it,  after  all  I  've " 

"Did  he  say  what  he  was  going  to  do?" 

"  I  believe  he  's  been  offered  a  job  on  a  new 
picture  paper  some  college  friends  of  his 
are  starting.  They  've  been  after  him  be- 
fore; they  think  him  'quite  a  dab  as  a 
cartoonist,'  whatever  that  may  mean.  He 
says  he  has  known  for  some  time  that  he  'd 
never  make  anything  of  a  painter,  only  he 
would  n't  give  in.  And  really,  Elsie,  I  do 


1 82  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

think  it  was  most  inartistic  of  him  to  paint 
you  in  that  plain  white  muslin,  when  I 
wanted  you  to  wear  your  rose-colored  silk 
over-skirt  with  the  velvet  shoulder-straps. 
I  guess  he  's  right  when  he  says  he  's  better 
at  pen-and-ink  work.  Most  anybody  can 
do  that.  I  'm  sure  I  was  very  clever  at 
it  myself,  when  I  was  at  the  Miss  Etchems's 
finishing  school.  There  was  a  weeping  willow 
beside  a  brook  that  I  did  that  took  second 
prize. " 

"Where  are  they  going  to  start  the  paper? 
Here,  in  the  city?" 

"No;  in  New  York.  And  I  think  it's 
just  as  well,  all  things  considered.  They 
guarantee  him  eighteen  hundred  a  year  to 
start  with.  I  asked  him,  just  to  show  my 
interest.  It 's  only  what  Johnny  Wenham 
gets,  you  know,  but  it  does  seem  a  good 
deal  for  that  cheap  sort  of  work.  However, 
his  cousin,  Hugh  Wilby,  is  backing  them  up, 
and  I  suppose  they  're  ready  to  stretch  a 
point  for  him.  That  branch  of  the  family 's 
been  out  of  the  mills  since  before  the  war, 
you  know,  so  they  're  not  hurt  a  mite. 
And — why,  Elsfe!  Didn't  Julie  Spencer 
tell  me  that  Hugh  Wilby  was  rather  smitten 
with  you?" 


A  Brilliant  Match.  183 

"Mother!    Don't  make  me  hate  you!" 

The  girl  had  not  stirred  from  her  post 
over  by  the  centre-table.  She  had  been 
listening,  with  what  seemed  but  a  listless 
attention,  asking  a  question  now  and  then, 
in  a  monotonous  tone  of  voice.  But  at  her 
mother's  last  words  something  broke  loose. 

"Don't  make  me  hate  you!"  she  cried; 
and,  with  revolt  in  every  line  of  her  figure, 
she  left  the  room. 

Edna  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  it. 
She  had  never  seen  Elsie  like  that.  Why, 
it  was  as  if  she  really  did  hate  her  mother! 
Though  of  course  that  was  impossible.  It 
would  be  against  nature! 

Poor  Edna!  As  if  she  had  ever,  in  all 
the  course  of  her  life,  concerned  herself 
with  nature!  And  even  now,  it  was  only  a 
passing  recognition  she  paid  that  redoubtable 
dame.  She  was  chiefly  conscious  of  a  blind 
resentment  against  Elsie,  for  planting  a 
thorn  somewhere  in  her  anatomy — she  did 
not  quite  know  where  (for  her  heart  was 
the  last  thing  Edna  ever  took  into  considera- 
tion) , — but  it  rankled.  And  when,  at  twelve 
o'clock  precisely,  the  door-bell  rang,  and 
Elsie  came  down-stairs  again,  to  meet 
Marcus  Wilby,  Edna  found  herself  giving 


1 84  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

very  little  thought  to  what  might  be  passing 
between  the  two  young  people  whose  affair 
she  herself  had  so  satisfactorily  wound  up. 
She  was  too  busy  applying  liniments  and 
lotions  of  her  own  devising  to  that  rankling 
hurt,  which  had  gone  deeper  than  she  knew. 

The  interview  was  very  short;  disgrace- 
fully short,  Elsie  pronounced  it  afterward, 
when  she  came  to  review  it  in  the  light  of 
her  own  behavior.  But  really,  from  the 
moment  she  took  Marcus  Wilby's  cold  hand, 
and  looked  up  into  his  tense,  drawn  coun- 
tenance, she  had  so  completely  forgotten 
herself  that  she  was  hardly  to  be  held  ac- 
countable for  the  sequel. 

He  looked  somehow  taller,  older,  than 
he  had  looked  ten  days  ago.  There  were 
lines  too  at  mouth  and  eyes  that  she  had 
never  seen  till  now.  But — had  she  really 
ever  looked  at  him  before? 

"I  had  meant  to  tell  you  everything 
myself,"  he  said,  with  a  quiet  dignity  that 
was  infinitely  appealing.  "But  your  mother 
has  got  the  start  of  me." 

"That 's  not  the  same  thing,"  she  heard 
herself  say. 

"No — but  I  thought  she  had  the  right. 
A  girl's  mother,  you  know." 


A  Brilliant  Match.  185 

"The  right?"  she  repeated  mechanically. 
But  she  no  longer  heard  her  own  words, 
nor  was  she  paying  heed  to  what  he  was 
saying.  Curiously  enough,  it  was  William's 
voice  that  she  was  listening  to,  as  she  looked 
into  that  face  that  she  had  never  seen  before. 
No,  she  had  never  seen  it  before,  not  once, 
in  all  these  months.  That  was  why  she 
had  been  so  stupid.  She  had  not  thought 
to  look.  He  had  been  her  mother's  choice, 
not  hers.  But,  now!  Why!  now  she  was 
choosing,  herself,  and  William  had  furnished 
the  touchstone.  "As  if  you  didn't  know 
that  he  was  just  all  there  is — for  you!" 
That  was  the  touchstone. 

But  Marcus  was  speaking  too,  and  pres- 
ently her  attention  was  arrested. 

"So  there  seems  really  nothing  left  to 
say,  but — good-bye,"  he  was  saying. 

Neither  of  them  had  thought  to  be  seated. 
They  were  standing,  face  to  face,  as  one 
does  stand  at  some  solemn  ceremony. 

"Good-bye?"  she  echoed,  vaguely. 

She  could  not  bear  to  see  his  face  like 
that.  He  must  be  comforted  at  once,  at 
once. 

But  there  was  no  break  in  his  self-control, 
as  he  answered: 


1 86  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

1 '  Yes.     For  I  am  going  away.    And  you — '  * 

"And  I?" 

"I  wrote  you  that  it  should  be  exactly 
as  you  wished." 

"And  how  do  you  know  what  I  wish?" 
she  murmured;  and  it  never  once  occurred 
to  her  to  tax  herself  with  forwardness. 
But  then,  that  was  because  she  was  thinking 
only  of  Marcus,  and  of  how  he  loved 
her. 

"Your  mother  told  me.  She  said  you 
would  not  consider  yourself  fitted  to  be  the 
wife  of  a  poor  man,  and  that— 
1  Do  what  he  would,  he  could  not  keep  his 
voice  quite  steady,  and  those  clean-cut 
lips  of  his,  that  had  been  so  firmly  set,  were 
getting  quite  out  of  drawing.  No,  she 
could  not  bear  it;  she  could  not  bear  it 
another  minute. 

Moving  a  step  nearer,  she  lifted  to  him 
a  face  that  he,  too,  for  all  his  study  of  it, 
had  never  seen  before,  and  said,  with  the 
drollest  little  twist  of  feeling: 

"You  might  give  me  a  trial!" 

"Elsie!" 

At  that  cry  of  joy,  the  hidebound  Yankee 
beat  a  hasty  retreat,  leaving  Marcus  himself 
in  full  possession  of  the  field.  And  lo, 


A  Brilliant  Match.  187 

Elsie,  the  incomparable  Elsie,  found  herself 
swept  off  her  feet  at  last,  quite  as  if  she  had 
been  the  merest  wax-doll  that  ever  melted 
in  the  sun. 

"For  you  see,  mother,  we  think  it 's 
going  to  be  the  greatest  fun  in  the  world 
to  be  poor — together! " 

Thus  did  Elsie  slip  the  domination  of  a 
lifetime.  But  as  she  did  so,  she  stooped 
and  kissed  her  mother,  so  naturally,  and 
so  sweetly,  too,  that  that  unpractised  heart 
gave  a  throb  of  relief,  more  easily  to  be 
located  than  the  rankling  thorn  had  been. 
It  was  almost  as  if  she  really  did  love  the 
girl,  in  that  every-day,  commonplace  way 
that  most  mothers  have.  And  if  she  loved 
her  now,  the  inference  must  be  that  she  had 
always  loved  her.  For  certainly,  as  her 
very  first  words  demonstrated,  Edna  had 
by  no  means  changed  her  nature. 

"Well,  Elsie/'  she  declared.  "I  'm  glad 
you  're  so  happy,  and  I  hope  you  11  never 
forget  who  it  was  that  insisted  upon  your 
getting  engaged  to  him,  when  you  did  n't 
know  your  own  mind.  Perhaps  you  '11 
believe  now,  that  your  own  mother  knows 
what's  best  for  you." 


1 88  Later  Pratt  Protraits. 

And  once  having  taken  her  stand  on 
this  indisputable  fact,  Edna  rose  to  her 
full  height;  a  height  far  more  secure  than 
any  wave,  however  topping.  She  rose  to 
the  height  of  her  own  moral  stature, 
whence  she  adroitly  snatched  a  laurel  from 
defeat. 

"Yes,  he's  a  very  gifted  young  man," 
she  was  at  pains  to  assure  her  intimates. 
"So  much  the  gentleman,  too,  and  so  very 
well  connected;  and  that  counts  for  so  much 
in  these  days,  when  everybody  is  chasing 
after  money.  I  consider  it  myself  quite  a 
brilliant  match,  even  for  Elsie.  Besides," 
she  would  add,  blissfully  unconscious  of  an 
anti-climax,  "this  opening  in  New  York 
is  more  than  promising,  especially  when 
you  think  of  the  backing  they  Ve  got  in  his 
rich  relations, — and  those  picture-papers 
all  the  rage  too.  I  should  n't  be  surprised 
if,  in  a  year  or  two,  what  with  his  Art,  and 
that  paper  and  all,  he  should  be  making  a 
handsome  income." 

"All  the  same,"  Harriet  observed,  dryly, 
to  her  mother,  "they  're  only  sure  of  eighteen 
hundred  to  begin  with;  just  what  John 
Wenham  is  getting. " 

The   old   lady's    eyes   snapped,    as   only 


A  Brilliant  Match.  189 

those  eyes  could,    (for  had  they  not  had 
ninety  years'  practice?)  as  she  answered: 

"Didn't  I  tell  ye,  Harriet?  Say  what 
you  please,  that  girl's  a  Pratt, — and  if  she 
had  forty  mothers!" 


VI. 
JANE. 

THE  skeleton  in  the  Pratt  closet  was 
Jane,  and  she  looked  the  part.  She 
was  spare  and  wiry,  sharp-featured 
and  sharp-tongued.  Poor  she  was,  too,  and 
old,  and  she  would  n't  take  a  penny  from 
her  rich  relations. 

Jane  was,  of  course,  a  widow,  as  her  par- 
ticular type  of  skeleton  is  pretty  sure  to  be. 
The  family  were  divided  on  the  question 
of  cause  and  effect:  her  eldest  nephew, 
James  Spencer,  declaring  that  such  a  dis- 
position as  hers  was  enough  to  make  a  widow 
of  any  woman;  while  Martha,  her  brother 
Ben's  wife,  testified  that  she  had  always 
found  a  great  deal  to  like  in  Jane,  even  if  her 
bereavement  had  made  her  a  bit  "difficult." 

Happily  for  the  family  peace  of  mind, 
Jane  was  not  a  resident  of  Dunbridge. 
When,  at  the  age  (or  youth)  of  seventeen, 
190 


Jane.  191 

now  more  than  fifty  years  ago,  she  had 
freakishly  married  Henry  Bennett,  a  blame- 
less but  impecunious  young  man,  boasting 
neither  antecedents  nor  prospects,  she  had 
migrated  with  him  to  Westville,  a  fourth- 
rate  manufacturing  town  some  ten  miles 
removed  from  Dunbridge  topographically, 
while  socially  it  was  looked  upon  as  quite 
the  antipodes  of  that  genteel  suburb. 

Jane's  mother,  destined  later  to  be  known 
as  Old  Lady  Pratt,  had  strenuously  opposed 
the  match,  whereby  she  had  made  one  of  the 
few  blunders  of  her  career;  for  no  one  knew 
better  than  she  that  Jane  was  not  to  be 
"druv."  The  wisest  have  their  lapses, 
however,  and  when  once  the  keen-witted 
little  monitor  had  been  betrayed  into  speak- 
ing her  whole  mind,  the  die  was  cast. 

"No,  Jane,"  she  had  declared,  "  't  ain't 
because  this  new  beau  o'  yourn  is  a  poor 
man,  'n'  ain't  got  any  folks  to  speak  of, — 
that  ain't  why  I  'm  so  sot  ag'in  him.  It  's 
because  you  'd  think  you  was  doin'  him 
a  kindness  in  marryin'  him ;  'n'  wuss  still, 
he  'd  think  so  too — 'n'  that  would  be  the 
plain  ruination  o'  you." 

"I'd  like  to  know  why,"  Jane  flouted, 
setting  her  neck  at  an  ominous  angle. 


192  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

" You'd  like  to  know  why?  Well,  I'll 
tell  ye  why.  Ef  you  was  to  marry  a  man 
foolish  enough  to  look  up  to  you,  you  'd 
git  to  be  so  self-satisfied,  that  instid  o* 
broadenin'  out,  you  'd  jest  narrer  down;  'n* 
you  'd  stay  narrered  down  till  doomsday." 

Many  persons  affirmed  that  Jane  was  the 
"livin'  image"  of  her  mother,  and  never  was 
the  resemblance  more  pronounced  than  when 
the  two  were  most  at  odds.  To-day,  as 
Jane  straightened  her  back,  while  her  black 
eyes  flashed  defiance,  the  very  look  and 
attitude  of  her  seemed  a  usurpation,  and 
as  such  it  was  regarded. 

"You're  a  smart,  likely  enough  girl," 
the  mother  persisted,  with  stinging  em- 
phasis, "but  what  you  're  in  cryin*  need  of 
is  a  master!" 

At  that  moment,  had  he  but  known  it, 
Henry  Bennett's  suit  was  won. 

"A  master!"  cried  Jane,  now  in  open 
and  jubilant  revolt.  "I  'd  like  to  see  myself 
knucklin'  down  to  a  master." 

"So  should  I!"  The  retort  came  back 
like  a  whip-lash.  "I  'm  glad  we  kin  agree 
on  that." 

All  this  was  ancient  history  now.  Both 
Old  Lady  Pratt  and  Henry  Bennett,  ag- 


Jane.  193 

gressor  and  casus  belli  in  that  memorable 
engagement,  had  passed  beyond  the  clash 
of  arms,  and  only  Jane,  duly  "narrered 
down, "  and  sharply  acidulated  in  the  process, 
remained,  a  living  witness  to  its  enduring 
consequences.  Thanks  to  a  liberal  endow- 
ment of  "spunk,"  she  had  kept  a  "stiff 
upper  lip"  through  many  a  depressing 
experience  in  the  dingy  little  town  where  her 
husband  plied  his  trade  of  optician,  and 
where,  after  his  death,  she  and  her  son, 
Anson,  continued  to  dwell  in  obscurity, 
not  to  say  indigence.  Yet,  if  her  relatives 
had  thus  been  spared  the  mortification  of 
seeing  one  of  their  number  grow  shabbier 
and  thinner  under  their  very  eyes,  they  had 
been  nevertheless  poignantly  aware  of  the 
circumstance. 

Not  that  the  Pratts  were  peculiarly  sensi- 
tive to  the  sufferings  of  other  folks.  They 
were  doubtless  quite  as  philosophical  as 
the  rest  of  us  when  it  came  to  resigning 
themselves  to  their  neighbors'  misfortunes. 
Only  where  the  family  credit  was  involved 
were  they  disposed  to  take  things  hard. 
And  that  an  own  daughter  of  Old  Lady 
Pratt  should  "want  for  anything,"  that  a 
near  relative,  an  aunt  in  fact,  of  the  wealthy 


194  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

banker,  Stephen  Spencer,  should  be  reduced 
to  doing  her  own  work  in  her  declining 
years, — it  was  even  whispered  that  she 
bought  her  coal  in  small  quantities! — that 
did  touch  them  sorely. 

Various  overtures  made  from  time  to 
time,  looking  to  the  amelioration  of  Jane's 
condition,  had  formed  a  chronicle  of  failure, 
in  the  grim  humor  of  which  the  intended 
beneficiary  had  found  such  satisfaction  as  a 
well-seasoned  family  skeleton  may  be  sup- 
posed to  derive  from  the  embarrassment 
it  causes.  And  when  at  last  Anson  too 
had  passed  away  (a  characteristically  spirit- 
less procedure),  leaving  his  mother  in  still 
more  straitened  circumstances,  with  neither 
chick  nor  child  to  look  after  her,  the  situa- 
tion was  felt  to  reflect  grave  discredit  upon 
the  whole  connection. 

Perhaps  humor  is  too  genial  a  word  to 
apply  to  Jane's  relish  of  the  general  dis- 
comfiture. The  quality  of  her  perceptions, 
which  were  as  keen  as  they  were  limited, 
had  a  tendency  to  turn  things  sour;  while 
humor,  as  we  know,  is  the  prime  sweetener. 
Whether  or  not  her  grocer  was  correct  in 
his  surmise  that  "the  Widder  Bennett" 
lived  mainly  on  pickles, — the  cheap  brand, — 


Jane.  195 

morally  at  least  such  had  been  the  case  now 
these  many  years.  She  lived  on  pickles, — 
the  cheap  brand.  What  wonder  that  her 
sharp  little  teeth  were  set  on  edge? 

But  Jane  was  not  the  only  one  of  Old 
Lady  Pratt's  descendants  who  had  a  mind 
of  her  own,  and  when,  a  few  months  after 
Anson's  death,  her  sister  Harriet  went  the 
way  of  many  a  less  dignified  mortal,  the 
heirs,  as  they  were  quite  justified  in  styling 
themselves,  determined  upon  heroic  measures. 

"It's  agreed,  then,"  said  James  the 
executor,  in  family  conclave,  "that  we  make 
Aunt  Jane  a  regular  allowance." 

"In  mother's  name,"  Lucy  threw  in. 
"She  wouldn't  touch  it  otherwise." 

"Of  course,  in  mother's  name,"  Arabella 
declared  authoritatively.  "We  all  know 
she  'd  rather  starve  than  be  beholden  to  live 
folks." 

"She's  grown  more  peaked  every  year 
since  Henry  Bennett  died,"  James  remarked 
testily. 

"Yes,"  was  his  brother  Pratt's  sardonic 
comment.  "That 's  just  the  plague  of  it, — 
her  looking  starved.  We  could  make  out 
to  put  up  with  it  if  she  only  had  the  sense 
to  look  as  if  she  had  enough  to  eat  and  wear. " 


196  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

"Who  's  going  to  see  her  about  it?"  asked 
Lucy,  the  peacemaker 

"Why  not  you?"  her  husband  suggested. 
"You  're  a  great  hand  at  getting  round 
folks." 

"Nonsense,  Frank!"  But  although  she 
scouted  the  notion,  she  did  so  with  her 
brightest  smile;  and  Lucy's  smiles  were 
jewels  of  the  first  water. 

"The  proper  person  to  interview  Aunt 
Jane  is  undoubtedly  the  executor,"  Arabella 
adjudicated  unhesitatingly. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of?"  cried 
Susan.  ' '  James  could  n't  keep  his  temper  two 
minutes." 

"Couldn't  keep  my  temper?"  James 
thundered. 

"Pratt 's  the  man,"  Stephen  interposed. 
"He  understands  Aunt  Jane  better  than 
anybody.  He  never  riles  her." 

"Nor  he  don't  try  to  bamboozle  her," 
James  growled  vindictively,  and  with  con- 
siderable acumen  too.  For,  in  view  of  the 
skeleton's  eccentricities, — and  they  were  ana- 
tomically well-defined, — the  astute  Stephen 
was  scarcely  less  disqualified  for  this  par- 
ticular mission  than  the  explosive  James 
himself. 


Jane.  197 

Pratt,  on  the  other  hand,  being  an  avowed 
misanthrope,  might  be  considered  more  akin 
to  his  aunt  than  any  of  the  others.  His 
tongue  was  caustic  but  never  hasty,  his 
temperament  bleak  but  equable.  Further- 
more, although  he  was  a  lawyer,  and  a 
clever  one  too,  he  had  never  made  money 
enough  to  incur  an  imputation  of  that  smug 
self-complacency  which  Jane  was  so  quick 
at  ferreting  out.  People  said  he  was  too 
clever  to  take  his  clients  seriously;  they  felt 
that  he  saw  through  them,  and  that  made 
them  restive.  What  they  were  paying  him 
for  wras  to  see  through  the  other  fellow.  It 
may  also  be  mentioned,  though  he  himself 
would  never  have  owned  it,  that  he  was  not 
infrequently  handicapped  by  a  sneaking 
sympathy  for  the  under-dog. 

When,  a  day  or  two  later,  the  chosen 
emissary  presented  himself  before  his  aunt 
in  her  dreary  little  sitting-room,  where  the 
winter's  chill  still  lingered,  though  April  was 
setting  things  sprouting  and  simmering 
outside,  she  struck  him  as  looking  more 
than  ever  like  a  small,  elderly  kobold  on 
short  rations.  The  hue  and  texture  of 
her  skin,  the  cut  of  her  wizened  features 
all  bore  out  the  impression,  which  was  still 


198  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

further  accentuated  by  a  certain  elfish 
alertness  of  glance  and  gesture,  as  of  a 
creature  not  quite  domesticated.  Jane's 
hair,  which  she  wore  pulled  straight  back, 
and  fastened  in  a  tight  little  knob  at  the 
nape  of  her  neck,  was,  like  her  widow's 
weeds,  of  a  rusty  black.  But  neither  years 
nor  reverses  had  availed  to  tarnish  the 
sparkling  jet  of  her  eyes,  nor  to  modify 
the  acrid  tang  of  her  speech.  Touching  the 
latter,  indeed,  Pratt  Spencer  used  to  declare 
that  her  waspishness  was  so  purely  auto- 
matic that  no  one  had  any  business  to  take 
it  amiss. 

"Well,  Pratt,"  was  her  tart  greeting. 
"This  is  the  second  time  since  Christmas. 
Ain't  you  gettin'  to  be  quite  a  society  man?" 

"Oh,  this  is  not  a  duty  call,"  he  returned 
cheerfully.  "I  Ve  come  for  pleasure." 

"You  hev,  hev  you?" 

"Yes;  I  Ve  come  to  make  myself  dis- 
agreeable. " 

"Hm!  Couldn't  you  do  that  nearer 
home?" 

"Not  this  time.  I  fm  depending  on  your 
cooperation." 

"Hopin'  to  raise  a  loan,  perhaps?" 

The  masterly  sarcasm  of  this  sally  was 


Jane.  199 

enough  to  put  even  Jane  into  a  good  humor. 
Perceiving  which,  he  made  haste  to  follow 
it  up. 

"How  did  you  guess?"  he  inquired,  in 
simulated  wonderment. 

"Well,  I  thought  you  was  lookin'  kind 
o'  sheepish." 

"You  '11  not  make  it  too  hard  for  me, 
will  you,  Aunt  Jane?"  he  wheedled,  unreeling 
his  line,  as  it  were,  to  give  free  play  to  her 
caprice. 

"Dunno  'bout  that,"  she  returned,  with 
a  quite  piscatorial  whisk  of  fancy.  "Never 
did  approve  o'  young  folks  runnin'  in  debt." 

Young  folks,  indeed !  As  if  she  did  n't 
know  her  nephew's  age  to  a  day! 

"We  might  call  it  a  gift,"  he  grinned, 
with  a  crafty  turn  on  the  reel. 

"A  gift!"  It  was  a  very  polysyllable 
of  misprision, — the  sinuous  protest  of  the 
trout  as  the  line  tightened. 

"Why  not?"  And  he  turned  upon  her 
a  pair  of  inquisitorial  glasses.  Goggle-eyed 
as  he  called  himself,  Pratt  managed  to  make 
those  glasses  of  his  do  a  power  of  execution. 

"Well,  I  never  seen  a  Pratt  yet  that  /  'd 
offer  money  to;  did  you?" 

This  was  by  good  rights  a  poser. 


2OO  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

"Not  my  own,  perhaps,"  he  admitted, 
"but,  look  here,  Aunt  Jane,  "•  — unblushingly 
sacrificing  syntax  to  rhetoric, — "how  about 
when  they  're  gone  where  they  've  no  more 
use  for  their  money?" 

But  she  had  him  there. 

"Then  of  course  you  couldn't  offer  it 
to  'em,"  she  retorted,  with  the  ready  logic 
of  perversity. 

Whereupon,  conceiving  that  he  had  given 
her  line  enough,  he  dropped  his  angling,  and 
came  straight  to  the  point.  Yet,  although  he 
put  the  matter  clearly  and  persuasively,  and 
with  entire  sincerity,  such  was  the  force  of 
skepticism  bristling  in  every  line  of  that  gritty 
little  face  and  figure,  that  he  could  n't  for  the 
life  of  him  keep  from  feeling  the  hypocrite; 
especially  when  it  came  to  the  peroration. 

"You  must  know  better  than  any  one," 
he  urged,  beshrewing  the  inevitable  plati- 
tude, "how  glad  mother  would  always  have 
been  to  see  you  enjoying  the  comforts  you 
were  born  to." 

It  is  painful  to  record  that  at  this  point 
Jane  sniffed. 

"Oh,  yes,"  was  the  derisive  comment. 
"You  can't  expect  folks  to  be  exactly  proud 
o'  their  poor  relations. " 


Jane.  201 

"Have  it  so,  for  all  me, "  he  acquiesced 
cordially.  "I  should  be  the  last  to  deny 
that  we  're  a  parcel  of  egotists.  But  all  the 
same,"  taking  quick  toll  of  his  acquiescence, 
"mother  did  want  to  see  her  own  sister 
comfortable.  And  now  's  the  time  for  car- 
rying out  her  wishes. " 

"No,  't  ain't, "  Jane  objected,  shrewdly. 
"The  time  for  kerryin'  out  her  wishes  was 
when  she  was  makin'  her  will. " 

But  this  was  overstepping,  and  he  promptly 
called  a  halt. 

"You're  out,  there,"  he  said  with  de- 
cision. "Right  or  wrong,  mother  had  her 
own  ideas  about  the  family  property.  She 
would  not  have  felt  justified  in ' 

"Well,  then,"  she  broke  in,  "that  settles 
it.  I  should  n't  think  of  crossin'  her,  now 
she's  dead  'n'  gone."  Then,  with  one  of 
those  quick  movements  with  which  she  was 
wont  to  punctuate  an  ultimatum,  "S'posin* 
we  hev  a  taste  o'  raspberry  vinegar, — seein' 
's  you  Ve  come  so  fur  for  nothin', "  she  added 
maliciously. 

"Not  for  me,"  he  gave  back,  in  frank 
tit-for-tat.  "That  would  be  too  much  of 
a  good  thing." 

"Well,"  she  snapped,  "if  you  don't  relish 


2O2  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

what 's  offered,  you  're  free  to  refuse  it. 
We  ain't  any  of  us  so  poor  but  we  kin  do 
that!" 

Brisk  as  the  retort  was,  she  looked  fagged, 
not,  as  usual,  stimulated,  by  the  fray.  He 
marked  the  strain  in  the  little  pinched  face, 
and  straightway  the  under-dog  began  pulling 
at  his  sympathies. 

"Come,  come,  Aunt  Jane,"  he  pleaded, 
with  gruff  kindliness.  "You  're  out  of  sorts, 
and  no  wonder, — living  here  all  by  yourself 
without  so  much  as  a  kitchen-maid  to 
plague  you.  I  suppose  your  mind  gets 
running  on  Anson,  and  it  wears  on  you." 

Well  though  he  knew  her,  he  half  ex- 
pected to  see  her  soften.  But  he  was 
reckoning  without  the  innermost  core  of  his 
fierce  little  antagonist.  A  hard  glitter  in 
those  jet-black  eyes  warned  him  that  he 
had  trespassed. 

"Anson  wa'n't  ever  much  company," 
she  averred  harshly.  "I  ain't  missin'  him 
particularly."  And  Anson,  her  own  son, 
scarce  six  months  dead ! 

Pratt  Spencer  was  sharply  on  the  alert. 
A  new  element  had  entered  into  the  case. 
Here  was  no  thrust  and  parry  of  small-arms; 
it  was  a  cry  of  distress  from  a  starving 


Jane.  203 

garrison.  Not  temper,  but  heartache  had 
forced  that  cry, — plain,  grinding  heartache. 
Hateful  word  that ;  hateful  thing  too.  And 
the  man's  mind  jerked  backward,  twenty- 
five  years,  to  the  day  when  Clara  Dudley 
threw  him  over  for  a  light-weight  fellow 
who  sang  tenor. 

How  that  tenor  voice  had  rankled,  all 
these  years !  And  he,  the  lean  six-footer,  en- 
cumbered with  a  portentous  bass  that  flatted 
from  sheer  force  of  gravity,  had  behaved 
then  exactly  as  Jane  was  behaving  now. 
He  too  had  lied,  doggedly,  bitterly.  He 
had  lied  to  his  people,  he  had  lied  to  Clara, 
he  had  lied  to  himself.  He  too  had  sworn 
that  he  did  n't  care.  And  in  course  of  time, 
when  he  considered  himself  cured  of  what 
he  was  now  pleased  to  characterize  as  an 
acute  cerebral  dyspepsia,  he  had  clinched 
the  argument  by  marrying  another  girl, — 
a  capital  girl  too,  and  one  who  had  no  ear 
for  music.  Yet,  on  the  day,  two  scant 
years  after  Clara's  untimely  death,  when 
her  husband  had  consoled  himself  with  a 
new  wife,  Pratt  Spencer  had  carried  flowers 
to  the  grave  of  the  girl  who  had  jilted  him. 
And  always  after  that,  on  the  anniversary 
of  her  husband's  second  marriage,  he  had 


204  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

deliberately,  punctiliously,  carried  flowers 
to  her  grave.  Another  man  in  his  case 
might  have  kept  her  birthday,  or  the  anni- 
versary of  her  death.  He  chose  to  mark 
the  day  on  which  her  husband  had  consoled 
himself.  Thus  he  clearly  demonstrated  that 
it  was  an  affair,  not  of  sentiment,  but  of 
homely  justice.  She  too  merited  consola- 
tion on  that  day,  and  he  would  see  that  she 
got  it.  For  he  could  be  judicial,  since  he 
did  n't  care. 

And  Jane  did  n't  care.  She  was  n't  missing 
Anson  particularly;  he  was  never  much 
company.  Had  she  too  been  jilted,  he 
wondered, — jilted  by  her  own  son?  And — 
for  whom? 

"Aunt  Jane,"  he  asked,  abruptly,  "was 
Anson  ever  great  friends  with  anybody?" 

"I  dunno 's  he  was — unless  't  was  with 
that  old  allopath,  Dr.  Morse,  over  to  East 
Burnham,"  she  added  grudgingly. 

"Hm!  That  was  where  he  practised 
medicine,  was  n't  it?" 

"Yes;  'n'  Dr.  Morse  took  good  care  that 
he  didn't  practise  medicine  long!" 

Pratt  had  heard,  years  ago,  and  with  cold 
disapproval,  of  his  cousin's  fiasco.  How, 
beguiled  by  the  apparent  simplicity  of 


Jane.  205 

homoeopathy,  then  just  coming  into  vogue, — 
pushed  into  the  practice  of  it  indeed  by  the 
rash  little  martinet  who  was  his  mother, — 
he  had  suddenly  turned  doctor,  much  as 
he  might  have  turned  haberdasher,  with 
no  professional  training,  no  conception  of 
the  need  of  it.  How  he  had  made  a  sur- 
prising success  of  the  thing  for  a  few  months, 
and  then  had  suddenly  turned  his  back  on 
fortune,  and  come  home  to  sell  spectacles 
over  his  father's  counter.  A  bitter  pill  that 
must  have  been  for  Jane.  And  now,  in 
the  stark  impoverishment  of  her  lonely  life, 
what  more  natural  than  that  she  should 
ruminate  upon  it  till  it  played  the  mischief 
with  her  constitution?  Plainly  an  antidote 
must  be  found,  and  who  more  likely  to 
know  the  formula  than  that  East  Burnham 
doctor  whom  Anson  had  been  so  thick  with? 
Indeed  where  was  the  good  of  being  a 
doctor  at  all,  if  you  could  n't  cure  folks  ? 
With  which  somewhat  revolutionary  dictum, 
Pratt  elected  to  pronounce  the  question  closed. 
Certainly  it  could  do  no  harm  to  step  over 
to  East  Burnham  and  have  a  word  with  the 
"old  fogy."  To-morrow  was  Sunday;  the 
weather  seemed  promising  for  a  country 
jaunt, — an  important  desideratum,  by  the 


206  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

way.  For  as  often  as  Pratt  Spencer  con- 
templated any  enterprise  which  could  be 
remotely  construed  into  a  good  deed,  he 
was  at  pains  to  convince  himself  that  he  was 
acting  in  obedience  to  a  whim  of  his  own. 
Yes,  a  trip  to  East  Burnham  was  the  very 
thing  for  an  April  Sunday,  and  if  it  turned 
out  that  the  old  doctor  really  did  have  that 
antidote  up  his  sleeve,  why,  all  the  better. 
That  affair  of  the  allowance,  a  confounded 
bore  at  the  best,  could  go  over  to  a  more 
favorable  moment.  He  'd  have  his  country 
jaunt  at  any  rate. 

"Well,  Aunt  Jane,"  he  said,  as  he  took 
her  hard  little  hand  in  parting, — how  many 
years  of  poverty  and  toil  had  gone  to  make 
callous  that  little  hand, — and  that  little  soul 
too  as  far  as  that  went! — "Well,  Aunt  Jane, 
I  guess  you  and  I  are  a  good  deal  alike,  and 
fight  shy  of  our  feelings.  But  we  all  know 
what  a  devoted  son  Anson  was."  And  now 
he  was  too  much  in  earnest  to  bother  about 
platitudes.  "He  loved  his  mother,  if  he  was 
not  much  company." 

Again  she  sniffed. 

He  had  got  to  the  door  and  his  hand  was 
on  the  knob,  when  a  sharp,  strained  voice 
arrested  him. 


Jane.  So? 

" Pratt  Spencer,  you  come  back!" 

He  turned,  and  stood,  waiting  for  her 
to  speak. 

"You  appear  to  think  you  know  pretty 
much  all  there  is  to  know  'bout  other  folks* 
affairs,"  she  rasped.  "I  should  like  to  hev 
you  tell  me  when  Anson  ever  poured  out 
his  heart  to  you." 

"Can't  say  he  ever  did." 

"Hm!  Thought  as  much.  To  hear  you 
talk,  a  body  'd  think  he  'd  been  in  the  habit 
of  tellin'  you  what  store  he  set  by  his  mother!" 

The  words  were  scornful,  but  there  was  an 
eager  light  in  the  eyes,  and  a  sharp  catch  in 
the  breath,  as  she  waited  his  reply.  Pratt 
Spencer,  for  all  his  pride  of  misanthropy, 
would  have  given  much  to  answer  in  the 
affirmative.  Being,  however,  but  an  in- 
different liar  at  best,  he  found  himself 
constrained  to  say,  lamely  enough: 

"I  never  knew  Anson  very  well,  Aunt 
Jane,  but  he  had  the  name  of  being  a  devoted 


son.' 


The  eager  light  went  out  like  a  candle, — 
not  blown  out  by  the  wind,  but  guttering 
in  the  socket  from  lack  of  nourishment. 
There  was  no  more  catching  of  the  breath  as 
she  rejoined,  dully: 


208  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

"Well,  I  dunno's  anybody 's  ever  denied 


it." 


And  now  the  door  had  closed  upon  her 
visitor,  and  Jane  stood,  a  forlorn  little  wilted 
figure,  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  wondering 
what  on  earth  she  had  been  thinking  of. 
Why  had  she  said  that  foolish  thing  that 
did  n't  deceive  anybody,  least  of  all  herself? 
She  did  not  miss  Anson  particularly? — did 
not  miss  him?  No ;  because  he  was  ever  with 
her, — right  there  before  her  eyes, — his  face 
turned  away! 

With  a  hard,  dry  sob,  she  dropped  upon  the 
nearest  chair,  and  sat  there,  clutching  the 
arms  of  it,  and  staring  at  the  wall.  There 
had  been  smirking  shepherdesses  on  that  wall 
six  months  ago.  Here,  in  this  room,  the 
operation  had  taken  place, — the  operation 
which  Anson  had  undergone  at  the  hands  of 
a  rising  young  surgeon,  James  Ellery  by 
name,  whom  Dr.  Morse  had  summoned  to  the 
case.  Here,  right  here,  she  had  sat  for  hours 
afterward,  watching  for  a  look,  a  movement, 
any  smallest  token  that  the  patient  was  think- 
ing of  his  mother.  But  no,  he  had  thoughts 
only  for  the  doctors,  only  for  the  operation. 
When  they  told  him  that  he  could  n't  pull 
through,  "That  's  no  account,"  he  had  pro- 


Jane 
With  a  hard,  dry  sob,  she  sank  upon  the  nearest  chair. 


Jane.  209 

tested  feebly.  "The  operation's  the  thing. 
That  's  all  we  care  about." 

Ah,  but  the  irony  of  that  had  struck  home, 
—the  sheer  irony  of  it  after  all  these  years. 
For  a  long,  dragging  quarter  of  a  century  he 
had  quietly,  stubbornly  held  out  against  her, 
—quietly,  stubbornly,  he  had  gone  his  ways, 
oblivious  apparently  to  the  profession  he  had 
wilfully  renounced,  the  profession  on  which 
she  had  staked  her  all  of  motherly  pride, — 
and  now  at  last,  when  it  could  profit  nothing, 
so  alive  to  the  appeal  of  it  that  he  had  never 
a  word  of  good-bye  for  her.  Not  wounded 
pride,  not  thwarted  ambition — the  master- 
grievance  of  her  life  hitherto — was  wringing 
her  heart  in  that  hour,  but  just  the  primitive, 
indomitable  mother-instinct,  clamoring  for 
its  own. 

"Why,  mother!  You  up  so  late?  Why 
don't  you  go  to  bed?" 

She  might  have  been  the  merest  stranger 
intruding  upon  the  scene, — one  of  those 
smirking  shepherdesses  that  seemed  to  come 
alive  and  mock  at  her.  The  mocking  shep- 
herdesses had  since  been  pasted  over  with  a 
cheap  sprawling  wall-paper  which  her  own 
hands  had  applied,  but  in  imagination  she 

could  still  see  their  smirking  faces,  their  silly 
14 


Later  Pratt  Portraits. 


frills  and  furbelows,  through  the  sprawling 
pattern.  And  so,  under  the  stiff  crust  of 
indifference  she  so  jealously  guarded,  that 
hidden  wound  had  festered,  unacknowledged, 
and  when  the  chance  probe  of  her  nephew's 
words  pricked  through,  she  could  only  cry 
out  in  a  blind,  senseless  repudiation  of  that 
primitive  instinct  which  had  been  mercilessly 
preying  upon  her  for  months  past.  Anson 
was  never  much  company  !  She  was  n't  miss- 
ing him  particularly!  Poor  little  undisci- 
plined soul,  caught  in  the  tangle  of  its  own 
tragic  waywardness! 

There  was  a  timid  rap  at  the  kitchen  door. 
A  neighbor's  child  stood  outside.  Jane's 
neighbors  were  very  small-fry  nowadays; 
those  who  could  afford  it  had  long  since 
moved  uptown. 

"  Please,  Mis'  Bennett,"  came  a  whining 
voice,  "ma  thought  p'raps  you  'd  accommo- 
date us  with  a  few  eggs.  It  's  Saturday 
night,  and  she  's  all  run  out." 

"It  's  Saturday  night  over  here  too,"  Jane 
observed  dryly. 

The  Dannings  were  arrant  beggars,  but 
Jane  was  never  averse  to  playing  the  Lady 
Bountiful. 

She  stepped  to  the  pantry.     There  were 


Jane.  211 

just  three  eggs  there.  She  put  them  in  a 
paper  bag  and  handed  them  to  the  child. 

"Tell  your  ma  that 's  all  I  can  spare 
to-day,"  she  said.  "I'm  kind  o'  short 
myself." 

And  with  a  hasty  "Thankee"  the  child 
trotted  off. 

Jane  returned  to  the  sitting-room  much 
cheered.  She  understood  that  certain  of  her 
well-to-do  relatives  had  theories  about  en- 
couraging mendicancy.  She  for  her  part 
would  like  to  know  how  you  could  expect 
your  inferiors  to  look  up  to  you  if  you  did  n't 
assert  yourself. 

She  was  crossing  the  room  in  quest  of  her 
work-basket,  when  she  noticed  that  Pratt 
had  left  the  evening  paper  behind  him.  She 
glanced  at  it  in  quick  suspicion.  Did  he 
know  she  could  n't  afford  a  paper?  She  had 
half  a  mind  to  mail  it  to  him, — to  put  the 
price  of  it  into  a  stamp.  But  no.  She  liked 
Pratt.  She  did  n't  mind  accepting  that  much 
from  him. 

She  picked  up  the  paper  and,  seating  her- 
self, began  reading  it,  diligently,  system- 
atically, as  a  person  does  to  whom  the  daily 
paper  is  a  luxury.  Suddenly  her  heart 
contracted  sharply.  What  was  this  about 


212  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

Dr.  James  Ellery  and  the  amazing  operation 
he  had  performed?  She  glanced  furtively 
across  the  room  to  where  the  bed  had  stood. 
There  was  no  bed  there,  and  the  shepherd- 
esses that  might  have  witnessed  to  it  were 
pasted  over. 

With  a  sense  of  relief  she  returned  to  the 
perusal  of  the  paper.  Hastily,  eagerly  now, 
she  ran  her  eye  down  the  column, — a  whole 
column,  more  than  a  column,  all  about  that 
young  man  who  had  been  Anson's  doctor. 
An  odd  movement  of  pride  in  the  fact  had 
succeeded  to  that  first  twinge  of  pain.  She 
could  not  make  out  much  about  the  operation 
itself,  the  technical  language  puzzled  her; 
but  there  followed  a  sketch  of  the  young 
surgeon's  career,  and  that  was  easily  intelli- 
gible. He  had  been  a  poor  boy,  orphaned 
son  of  an  East  Burnham  mechanic,  and  had 
owed  his  education  to  an  unknown  bene- 
factor, one  who  had  never,  to  this  day, 
revealed  his  identity,  even  to  the  beneficiary 
himself. 

She  liked  that  about  the  unknown  bene- 
factor. It  would  have  been  her  own  way  of 
doing  if  she  had  had  the  means.  Old  Martin 
Crapp  had  not  guessed  where  that  five-dollar 
bill  came  from  the  time  he  broke  his  leg ;  and 


Jane.  213 

little  Miss  Elson,  dying  of  consumption,  had 
eaten  her  oranges  with  never  a  suspicion. 
No,  Jane  had  never  been  one  to  ask  for 
thanks.  Willing  as  she  was  that  her  inferiors 
should  look  up  to  her,  upon  really  self-respect- 
ing folks  she  would  not  impose  that  sense 
of  obligation  which  she  herself  refused  to 
tolerate. 

Suddenly,  by  an  oblique  association  of 
ideas,  her  mind  reverted  to  a  certain  paper 
which  she  had  found  in  Anson's  meagre 
collection.  He  had  carefully  destroyed  every- 
thing which  could  give  a  clue  to  his  interests 
and  preoccupations.  Not  a  letter  had  she 
found,  not  the  smallest  jotting  of  a  personal 
nature.  Only  a  few  files  of  receipted  bills, 
his  old  high-school  diploma,  and  this  life- 
insurance  policy — this  sop  to  conscience,  as 
she  resentfully  termed  it,  with  which  he  had 
sought  to  condone  his  lack  of  filial  feeling.  In 
a  fierce  revolt  of  spirit,  she  had  thrust  the 
paper  out  of  sight,  not  so  much  as  breaking 
the  seal. 

To-night,  as  she  read  the  account  of  James 
Ellery's  career,  as  her  mind  dwelt  upon  the 
excellence  of  unacknowledged  benefactions, 
she  perceived  for  the  first  time  that  this  legacy 
of  her  son's  was  no  after-thought,  no  per- 


214  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

functory  quit-claim.  It  came  to  her  as  a 
revelation,  that  such  an  offering  as  this 
represented  foresight,  sacrifice, — that  it  was 
in  the  nature  of  a  secret  benefaction.  He 
had  never  hinted  at  what  he  was  doing.  That 
same  reticence  which  had  been  the  chief  sting 
of  his  quiet,  persistent  insubordination,  had 
governed  him  in  his  care  for  her  welfare. 
She  found  herself  wondering  how  far  back 
the  instrument  dated.  Perhaps  some  day 
she  would  break  the  seal;  but  not  now,  not 
yet.  She  would  not  even  draw  the  paper 
from  its  hiding-place  and  examine  the  super- 
scription. In  truth,  there  was  no  need  of 
that;  it  was  as  clearly  engraved  upon  her 
memory  as  upon  the  long  white  envelope: 

"Life-insurance  policy,  in  favor  of  Mrs. 
Jane  Bennett.** 

The  very  wording  of  it,  in  Anson's  familiar 
hand,  had  been  an  offence.  "In  favor  of 
Mrs.  Jane  Bennett."  His  last  written  mes- 
sage, like  his  last  spoken  word,  had  held  her 
at  arm's  length.  And  yet,  that  policy  stood 
for  foresight,  for  sacrifice.  What  was  that 
Pratt  Spencer  had  said?  Anson  had  the  name 
of  being  a  devoted  son?  She  liked  Pratt.  If 


Jane.  215 

you  could  n't  fool  him,  at  least  he  never 
tried  to  fool  you.  That  was  why  you  trusted 
him. 

The  dusk  was  already  gathering.  She 
laid  the  paper  down  and,  fetching  her  work- 
basket,  lighted  the  drop-light.  It  was  well 
past  supper-time,  but  Jane  did  n't  mind  that. 
She  would  have  a  bite  on  her  way  to  bed. 
She  would  n't  have  to  bother  with  cooking  an 
egg  to-night, — nor  to-morrow  either,  for  that 
matter! 

As  she  adjusted  her  glasses,  she  recalled, 
with  a  sore,  teasing  compunction,  the  pains 
Anson  had  been  at  to  fit  her  eyes  precisely, 
and  his  rather  fussy  solicitude  lest  she  should 
strain  them.  He  had  been  a  dutiful  son,  in 
many  ways.  He  had  tried  to  spare  her  where 
he  could.  Nor  had  he  ever  doubted  that  he 
was  contributing  handsomely  to  the  house- 
hold expenses;  for,  noting  how  penurious  he 
was  grown,  she  had  scorned  to  tell  him  that 
the  cost  of  living  had  increased.  And  all  that 
time,  while  denying  himself  the  smallest 
luxury  or  diversion,  he  had  been  making 
careful  provision  for  his  mother.  Queer  that 
she  had  never  thought  of  it  in  that  way  before. 
Well,  now,  at  last,  she  would  know  how  to 
value  his  gift. 


216  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

And  yet,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  she  did 
not  feel  the  slightest  inclination  to  examine 
the  document.  For  Jane's  crabbed  nature, 
within  its  own  hard-and-fast  limitations,  was 
not  devoid  of  a  curious,  twisted  streak  of 
ideality.  It  was  really  a  fact  that  she  cared 
not  at  all  for  things,  for  possessions,  as  com- 
pared with  what  they  stood  for.  That  was 
why  she  would  have  elected  to  scrimp  and 
shiver  and  toil  to  the  end  of  the  chapter, 
rather  than  accept  aid  which  could  be  ac- 
counted a  charity.  And  that  same  idiosyn- 
crasy of  disposition,  that  same  twisted  streak 
of  ideality,  still  determined  her  attitude 
toward  the  policy.  As  she  had  rejected  the 
offering  when  it  seemed  to  her  but  a  perfunc- 
tory quit-claim,  so  now  that  she  had  an 
intimation  of  its  essential  meaning,  she  felt 
no  immediate  impulse  to  investigate  further. 
It  simply  did  not  strike  her — yet — as  having 
any  direct  bearing  upon  her  own  degree  of 
personal  solvency.  What  she  would  have 
liked  to  do  about  it  was  to  show  it  to  Pratt 
Spencer,  in  confirmation  of  his  estimate  of 
Anson's  devotion. 

Yet  when,  the  very  next  day,  her  nephew 
came  again, — came,  by  the  way,  in  a  pouring 
rain  that  made  ducks  and  drakes  of  his 


Jane.  217 

theories  touching  April  Sundays  and  country 
jaunts, — she  expressed  neither  surprise  nor 
pleasure  at  seeing  him. 

"Did  you  come  back  for  your  paper?"  was 
the  cynical  inquiry,  as  he  laid  his  hat  down 
on  the  table,  cheek  by  jowl  with  the  printed 
sheet. 

"To  be  sure,*'  he  returned  complacently. 
"I  could  n't  sleep  a  wink  all  night,  for  worry- 
ing about  it." 

"Speakin'  of  that  paper,"  Jane  threw  in, 
glancing  keenly  at  him,  as  he  took  his  seat 
beside  the  table,  "I  don't  s'pose  you  hap- 
pened to  notice  quite  a  piece  about  young 
Dr.  Ellery,  and  the  remarkable  operation 
he  's  been  performin'. " 

"No;  I  hadn't  noticed  it,  but  Dr.  Morse 
was  telling  me  about  it. " 

"Dr.  Morse?  I  didn't  know's  you  knew 
Dr.  Morse." 

"Never  did  till  this  morning." 

" Where 'd  you  make  his  acquaintance?" 

"In  his  own  office." 

"You  went  'way  over  to  East  Burnham  in 
all  this  rain?" 

"Yes,"  with  a  deprecatory  shrug.  Why 
the  dickens  must  the  weather  man  play  him 
a  trick  like  that? 


218  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

"What   for?"   she   queried  peremptorily. 

"I  wanted  to  have  a  talk  with  him  about 
Anson." 

All  unconsciously  she  was  managing  the 
case  for  him.  He  had  but  to  follow  her  lead. 

" About  Anson?" 

"Yes, "  and  he  settled  back  in  his  chair  as 
if  for  prolonged  deliberation.  "The  truth  is, 
Aunt  Jane,  I  've  been  feeling  that  there  was 
something  about  Anson's  later  years  that 
perhaps  we  did  n't  altogether  understand. 
And  it  occurred  to  me  that  Dr.  Morse  might 
be  in  a  position  to  clear  things  up  for  us." 

Jane  bridled. 

"I  guess  there  wa'n't  much  that  Dr. 
Morse  could  tell  me  about  my  own  son," 
she  scoffed. 

"I  wouldn't  be  so  sure  of  that.  Anson 
was  very  reserved,  but  you  never  can  tell 
where  one  of  those  close-mouthed  fellows  will 
break  out." 

The  storm  had  suddenly  gathered  energy; 
a  great  gust  of  rain  struck  the  window-panes. 
There  was  something  petulant  about  it, 
something  not  unlike  Jane's  own  nervous 
vehemence. 

"Pratt  Spencer,  what  are  you  drivin*  at?" 
she  demanded. 


Jane.  219 

"The  truth,"  he  returned,  quietly  picking 
up  the  gauntlet.  ' '  Will  you  hear  it  ?  " 

She  sat,  for  a  moment,  rigid,  yet  shrinking. 

"If  that  man  over  to  East  Burnham 's  been 
sayin'  anything  to  Anson's  discredit,"  she 
declared  at  last,  "'t  ain't  the  truth,  V  I 
won't  hear  it." 

"I've  a  notion  that  the  whole  truth  about 
any  one  of  us  would  be  partly  to  our  dis- 
credit,"  he  opined.  "But  I  don't  believe 
many  men  could  strike  a  better  balance  than 
Anson,  when  all  was  told." 

She  had  laid  hold  of  the  arms  of  her  chair, 
bracing  herself  against  them,  while  her  eyes 
transfixed  his  face.  In  spite  of  herself  she 
was  solemnized,  as  he  meant  she  should  be. 
For  it  was  a  critical  moment  with  Jane.  That 
cheap  defiance  of  hers  must  be  held  in  check 
at  any  cost.  He  took  off  his  glasses  and  fell 
to  polishing  them.  She  was  not  to  feel  herself 
under  scrutiny. 

"I  wonder  how  much  Anson  himself  ever 
divulged,  of  his  reasons  for  giving  up  prac- 
tice,"  he  speculated  thoughtfully. 

Upon  that,  she  let  go  her  hold  on  the 
chair-arms;  the  spirit  of  contradiction  might 
be  trusted  to  sustain  her. 

"He  said  he  didn't   know   enough,"  she 


22O  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

flung  out,  "but  I  'd  like  to  know  how  he 
could  hev  made  such  a  success  of  it  if— 

She  had  caught  Pratt 's  unspectacled  gaze 
bent  questioningly  upon  her,  and  she  broke 
short  off. 

"Aunt  Jane,  he  didn't  know  anything; 
and  he  found  it  out. " 

"Through  Dr.  Morse? "  But  the  gibe  was 
pure  bravado,  and  she  knew  it. 

"Through  being  guilty   of  malpractice." 

There  was  no  use  in  mincing  matters;  it 
could  only  serve  to  confuse  the  issue. 

"Who  accused  him  of  malpractice?" 

"The  facts  in  the  case." 

"Well?" 

"He lost  a  patient." 

"You  ain't  claimin'  that  he  was  the  first 
doctor  that  ever  lost  a  patient?" 

"No;"  for  again  she  had  given  him  his 
cue.  "And  he  was  not  the  first  doctor  to  do 
so  through  malpractice.  But  he  was  the  first 
doctor  I  ever  happened  to  hear  of  who  devoted 
his  life  to  making  good  his — error." 

He  had  resumed  his  glasses,  which  were 
now  turned  full  upon  her. 

"Aunt  Jane,  Anson  lost  a  patient  because 
he  was  too  ignorant," — she  winced  visibly, 
but  there  was  no  help  for  it, — "he  was  too 


Jane. 


ignorant  to  recognize  pneumonia  when  he 
saw  it." 

But  once  more  she  rallied  her  forces. 

"That  man  has  prejudiced  you,  Pratt 
Spencer.  He  was  always  jealous  of  Anson.  " 

11  You  think  so?" 

"I  know  it.  It  was  he  that  made  him  give 
up  practice,  —  it  was  he  that— 

"  Would  you  like  to  hear  what  Dr.  Morse 
had  to  say  about  Anson?"  he  interposed 
quietly. 

"I  ain't  very  particular." 

"But  I  am.  He  is  an  old-fashioned  man, 
the  old  doctor,  and  he  expresses  himself  in  an 
old-fashioned  way.  But  I  am  convinced  that 
he  meant  it  with  all  his  heart  when  he  said 
that  he  had  come  to  love  Anson  as  a  son,  and 
to  revere  him  as  a  saint." 

She  made  a  half-hearted  attempt  to 
sniff. 

"Aunt  Jane,"  he  proceeded,  gravely  and 
firmly,  "Anson  gave  his  whole  life  to  making 
good  the  wrong.  Secretly,  and  with  the 
connivance  of  Dr.  Morse,  he  supported  his 
patient's  widow  out  of  his  slender  means. 
He  educated  one  of  her  boys,  still  in  secret, 
mind  you,  to  be  a  doctor.  And  that  boy  was 
—  can't  you  guess?" 


222  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

Her  lips  were  parted,  and  now  she  was 
leaning  forward,  avid  for  the  truth. 

"The  boy  Anson  educated  was  James 
Ellery,  the  young  doctor  who  was  in  charge 
of  his  case  at  the  end — the  doctor  whose 
name  to-day  is  known  to  half  the  profession. 
And  your  Anson  made  all  this  possible  for  him. 
Whatever  that  young  man  achieves,  the 
world  owes  it  primarily  to  Anson." 

On  that,  he  paused,  conscious  of  an  awk- 
ward access  of  emotion.  The  rain  had 
subsided  to  a  gentle,  conciliatory  patter; 
there  was  already  a  streak  of  light  in  the  west. 

"Doesn't  this  clear  up  some  things  that 
you  hadn't  quite  understood?"  he  asked 
presently.  There  was  an  indescribable  gen- 
tleness and  forbearance  in  his  tone. 

She  sat  for  some  seconds  so  still  that  it 
was  impossible  to  conjecture  her  mood,  her 
eyes  fixed — though  he  could  not  know  it — 
upon  that  corner  of  the  room  where  she  had 
chafed  and  hungered  for  the  word  that  never 
came.  At  last  she  spoke,  musingly,  and 
with  a  curious  tranquillity,  foreign  to  her 
stormy  spirit. 

"I  see  now,"  she  said,  "why  Anson  did  n't 
think  to  say  good-bye.  He  had  more  im- 
portant things  on  his  mind. " 


Jane. 


So  here  was  the  key  to  that  ghastly  speech 
of  hers  !  He  had  n't  thought  to  say  good- 
bye, poor  chap,  quite  taken  up,  no  doubt,  with 
watching  that  substitute  recruit  of  his  under 
fire.  Rather  stupid  of  Anson,  certainly. 
But,  after  all,  who  could  have  guessed  that 
the  incorrigible  little  outlaw  would  have 
been  such  a  stickler  for  signs  and  tokens? 
And  now  she  understood:  Anson  had  had 
more  important  things  on  his  mind.  Well, 
well!  There  was  a  vein  of  nobility  in  the 
little  aunt.  And  this  concession  to  some- 
thing bigger,  more  "important"  than  herself, 
—  why,  it  was  like  the  breaking  of  an  evil 
spell.  For  the  first  time  in  her  nephew's 
recollection  she  seemed  a  perfectly  normal 
human  being 

"You're  not  hurt,  then,"  he  ventured. 
"You  're  not  hurt  because  Anson  made  such 
a  secret  of  it?" 

"Hurt?  Not  a  mite.  It's  exactly  the 
way  I  should  have  acted  myself.  Anson 
and  I  were  more  alike  than  you  'd  think 
for."  There  spoke  the  old  Jane,  promptly 
self-assertive.  And  yet  —  the  motherly  pride 
of  it  was  good  to  witness  —  "He  was  always 
more  Pratt  than  Bennett." 

"That  's  certainly  something  for  us  Pratt  s 


224  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

to  be  proud  of,"  was  the  hearty  response. 
Upon  which,  with  an  adroit  turn,  and  al- 
most in  the  same  breath,  "And  now,  Aunt 
Jane,"  he  urged,  "you're  going  to  let  us 
treat  you  as  one  of  us?" 

Her    black    eyes    snapped    enigmatically. 

"Oh,  yes,  if  you're  a  mind  to,"  she 
answered  with  suspicious  alacrity. 

She  was  already  on  her  feet  and  stepping 
briskly  across  the  room  to  the  old  mahogany 
secretary  where  Anson  had  kept  his  papers. 

"There ! "  she  exclaimed,  as  she  drew  a  long 
white  envelope  from  the  top  drawer  and 
handed  it  to  her  nephewr,  who  had  also  risen, 
and  was  standing,  tall  and  wratchful,  beside 
her.  "You  're  a  lawyer,  'n'  I  dunno  's  there 's 
any  need  o'  goin'  out  o'  the  family  to  hev 
your  business  affairs  attended  to.  You 
might  see  to  this  for  me" 

"But  it  has  n't  been  opened,"  he  demurred, 
turning  the  paper  in  his  hand.  "How  did 
that  happen?  Have  you  only  just  dis- 
covered it?" 

"Well — rightly  speakin'  I  discovered  it 
last  evenin'  after  you  'd  left.  I  'd  seen  it 
before,  but  I  hadn't  understood  its  value." 

Pratt  paused,  his  finger  on  the  seal,  looking 
down  upon  the  taut  little  figure  in  which 


Jane.  225 

suppressed  excitement  was  straining  at  the 
leash. 

"No,  Aunt  Jane/*  he  said,  "I  can't  open 
this." 

She  hesitated  an  instant.  Then,  with  a 
forced  laugh,  and  observing,  "Then  you 
ain't  so  smart  as  you  're  cracked  up  to  be," 
she  snatched  the  paper  and,  with  nervous, 
trembling  ringers,  broke  the  seal.  Inside 
was  a  further  inclosure,  unsealed,  bearing  also 
a  superscription.  Without  a  glance  at  the 
document  itself  she  handed  that  to  her 
nephew,  retaining,  however,  the  second 
envelope. 

"I  guess  I  '11  keep  this,"  she  said  under 
her  breath,  while  a  slow  color  tinged  the 
seared  old  cheek,  and  something  dimmed  the 
brightness  of  the  eyes.  "'T  ain't  exactly 
business." 

Nor  was  it  exactly  business.  For,  written 
in  Anson's  own  hand,  and  speaking  to  her  in 
Anson's  own  quiet  voice,  were  the  words : 

"For  mother,  with  love  and  good-bye 
from  Anson." 

IS 


VII. 
PEGGY'S  FATHER. 

MR.   STEPHEN  SPENCER  was  per- 
plexed, and  he  did  n't  like  it.     Not 
only  did  it  hurt  his  self-esteem,  in 
that  he  prided  himself  upon  a  clear  head  and 
a  dispassionate  judgment,  but  it  worried  him 
too,  on  Peggy's  account. 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  young  Harold 
Burke  appeared  to  be  falling  in  love  with 
Peggy,  while  Peggy's  father  found  it  quite 
impossible  to  fall  in  love  with  Harold  Burke. 
In  truth,  he  distrusted  the  man,  root,  stock, 
and  branch,  and  he  could  n't  tell  why, — he, 
who  could  usually  give  chapter  and  verse  for 
his  opinions,  let  alone  his  prejudices. 

In  the  first  of  it,  Peggy's  father  had  not 
paid  much  heed  to  the  question  of  Peggy's 
own  state  of  mind.  There  were  so  many 
young  fellows  dangling  about  her,  and  to  so 
little  purpose,  that  he  had  somehow  lost 
sight  of  the  fact  that  girls  do  occasionally  lose 
226 


Peggy's  Father.  227 

their  hearts  and,  worse  still,  their  heads  in 
such  affairs.  Several  straws,  however,  had 
recently  indicated,  if  not  the  direction  of  the 
wind,  at  least  the  fact  that  it  was  rising,  and 
Stephen,  in  his  study  of  the  weather-vane 
which  was  Peggy's  fancy,  had  become 
anxiously  alert.  At  last  he  spoke  out.  This 
again  was  contrary  to  precedent,  his  custom 
being  to  let  the  other  party  do  the  speaking 
out. 

He  sat,  reading  his  paper  in  his  own  den 
one  winter's  evening,  wrapped  in  smoke  and 
comfort,  when  Peggy  appeared  before  him, 
all  rigged  out  for  a  dance.  She  looked  such 
a  fluff  of  billowy  white,  with  a  touch  of  pink 
in  cheeks  and  sash,  that  he  felt  as  if  some- 
thing had  blossomed  there  in  the  unlikely 
flower-bed  of  his  "brown  study."  He  often 
felt  that  way  when  Peggy  came  in;  barring 
the  maids,  she  was  the  only  bit  of  femininity 
about  the  house.  For  Stephen  was  what 
his  brother  Pratt  called  an  "unreconstructed 
widower." 

Peggy,  meanwhile,  had  stayed  her  slippered 
foot  mid-way  of  the  room,  a  small  pucker  of 
solicitude  between  her  eyebrows,  which  was 
not  more  than  half  affectation  either. 

"Will  I   do?"   she  inquired,   with  a  fine 


228  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

disregard  of  the  niceties  of  her  mother- 
tongue.  Her  father  was  fastidious;  she 
placed  more  trust  in  his  judgment  than  in 
that  of  her  looking-glass,  which  was  apt  to 
approve  the  latest  fashions  in  an  unthinking 
manner. 

"Yes;  you'll  do,"  was  the  reassuring 
reply.  "  Is  it  the  German? " 

"Yes." 

"Who  's  your  partner?" 

"Harold  Burke." 

"Sorry  to  hear  it." 

"Why?" 

"Don't  like  him." 

"Why  not?"  It  was  evident  that  father 
and  daughter  were  on  terms  of  easy  famili- 
arity. 

"Well,  Peggy,  I  may  be  wrong,  but,  in  my 
opinion,  the  man's  damaged  goods,  and  I 
don't  relish  having  him  palmed  off  on  my 
girl  for  a  whole  evening. " 

Peggy  tossed  her  head. 

"I  wouldn't  give  a  penny  for  a  Miss 
Nancy  kind  of  man,"  she  retorted;  and  the 
toss  in  her  speech  was  as  perceptible  as  that 
in  the  mutinous  head  itself. 

"He  might  not  be  on  sale,"  her  father 
threw  in;  while  it  occurred  to  him  that  when 


Peggy's  Father.  229 

he  had  so  warmly  desired  girls  to  his  portion, 
he  had  been  reckoning  without  that  propen- 
sity of  the  girlish  head — and  tongue. 

Stephen  Spencer,  though  anything  but  a 
mollycoddle,  dearly  loved  peace  and  a  quiet 
life.  He  had  mistrusted  the  genus  "boy," 
as  being  given  to  profanity,  fisticuffs,  and 
general  insubordination;  had  a  theory,  so  to 
say,  that  every  male  child  was  booked  to  turn 
out  a  handful.  And  here  was  Peggy,  the 
longed-for  girl,  after  letting  her  two  brothers 
steal  a  march  on  her,  turning  out  more  of  a 
handful  than  either  of  the  boys  had  been. 
One  of  these,  to  be  sure,  had  died  in  early 
youth,  and  the  other  was  studying  for  the 
ministry;  while  Peggy! — it  needed  but  a 
glance  at  that  head  of  hers,  which  had  kept 
the  angle  of  defiance  achieved  in  the  initial 
toss,  to  perceive  that  here  was  an  incipient 
rebel, — and  not  so  very  incipient  either! 

"Peggy,"  her  father  asked,  abruptly,— 
"What  is  it  that  you  like  about  the  fellow?" 

"What  does  anybody  like  about  any- 
body?" she  answered  back.  "I  just  like 
him."  Peggy  was  certainly  growing  fear- 
fully sophisticated. 

"Hm!  Think  him  straight, — honest,— 
above-board?" 


230  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

"If  he  wasn't,  I  shouldn't  know  it!"— 
this  with  a  shrug  that  a  girl  of  twenty  had  no 
business  with. 

"Your  mother  would  have,"  Stephen 
opined,  thoughtfully.  Did  n't  nice  girls  have 
any  intuitions  at  all  now-a-days,  he  asked 
himself. 

"Pooh!  Just  because  she  happened  to 
fall  in  love  with  you,  you  think— 

"Just  because  she  fell  in  love  with  me, 
Peggy,  I  know  the  kind  of  girl  she  was." 

"Oh,  well;  we  can't  all  be  alike."  Clearly 
there  was  something  very  much  askew  about 
Peggy  to-night.  But  she  had  given  him  an 
opening. 

"Then  the  other  girls  don't  like  him  as 
well  as  you  do?"  he  queried. 

She  had  crossed  the  room,  and  was  stand- 
ing with  her  hand  on  the  mantel,  looking 
down  into  the  glowing  bed  of  cannel-coal. 
As  the  last  big  chunk  broke  apart,  the  waver- 
ing reflection  of  the  leaping  flame  playing 
among  her  features  gave  them  a  shifty, 
uncertain  expression,  which  teazed  him. 
With  a  touch  of  impatience,  he  repeated  his 
question. 

"The  other  girls  don't  like  him  as  well  as 
you  do?" 


Peggy's  Father.  231 

"I  didn't  say  so,"  she  gave  back,  coolly, 
and  without  looking  up.  Then,  with  another 
shrug,  "At  any  rate,  they  're  all  spoiling  for 
the  chance." 

"And  there  's  not  a  girl  in  the  bunch  that 
sees  through  him?" 

If  she  really  liked  the  man,  Stephen  reflec- 
ted, she  would  n't  stand  that.  But  she  was 
not  in  the  least  ruffled.  On  the  contrary,  as 
the  leaping  flame  played  itself  out,  and  the 
fire  settled  back  into  its  steady  glow,  a  com- 
placent little  smile  revealed  itself,  sole  re- 
siduum of  those  shifting  changes  which  had 
teazed  him. 

"We  all  think  him  interesting,"  she 
observed,  musingly. 

"Fallen  angel  business,  eh?" 

"  Something  like  that,  perhaps.  Hark ! " — 
at  sound  of  wheels  on  the  driveway.  ' '  There 's 
Aunt  Lucy  and  the  girls."  And,  with  a 
hasty  kiss,  she  vanished  from  the  room,  leav- 
ing Stephen  under  an  impression  as  of  lights 
having  been  turned  down. 

He  did  not  follow  her  to  the  door;  he 
should  see  her  when  she  got  back.  A  Dun- 
bridge  dance  in  those  sensible  days,  a  gener- 
ation ago,  was  over  soon  after  midnight. 
Stephen  always  sat  up  for  his  daughter.  He 


232  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

had  old-fashioned  ideas  about  girls.  And 
besides,  he  loved  to  see  her  come  breezing 
home  from  a  dance.  Only,  latterly,  the 
quality  of  the  breeze  had  been  variable.  And 
once,  last  time  in  fact,  she  had  returned  in  a 
dead  calm.  That  was  what  had  set  him 
thinking. 

At  this  point  in  his  meditations,  Stephen 
became  aware  that  he  was  not  relishing  his 
cigar,  one  of  a  new  brand  which  his  dealer  had 
asked  him  to  try,  and,  with  an  irritable 
gesture,  he  tossed  it,  half -smoked,  toward  the 
grate.  It  just  missed  fire  and,  rolling  back 
upon  the  bricks,  lay  there,  emitting  a  vile 
smell.  That  was  the  worst  of  things  checked 
untimely:  they  deteriorated.  He  wondered 
how  Peggy  would  stand  checking.  Would 
she  too  sulk  and  smoulder  and  grow  sour? 
She  was  a  little  fool,  of  course,  with  her 
babyish  cynicism,  her  preposterous  worldly 
wisdom.  But  she  was  a  stout-fibred  little 
fool.  There  was  nothing  weak-kneed  about 
Peggy-  Only*  if  she  were  denied,  thwarted, 
treated  like  girls  in  story-books, — in  the 
good  old  story-books  where  the  stern  parent 
stalks  through  the  pages  like  a  Nemesis  in 
trousers  and  top-hat, — would  she  be  the 
same  Peggy?  Handful  though  she  was,  the 


Peggy's  Father.  233 

thought  of  a  different  Peggy  was  not  to  be 
tolerated  for  a  moment. 

As  Stephen  sat  there  in  his  quiet  den, 
darkened  as  it  seemed,  in  spite  of  chandelier 
and  drop-light,  by  the  passing  of  Peggy,  he 
fell  into  rather  depressing  cogitations.  Per- 
haps his  sister  Susan,  the  family  mentor, 
was  in  the  right  of  it.  Perhaps  he  ought  to 
have  provided  Peggy  with  a  step-mother,— 
some  good,  sensible  woman,  who  would  keep 
her  in  order,  without  that  clumsy,  mannish 
interference  which  he  had  a  morbid  horror 
of  blundering  into.  Ought  he  to  have  done 
violence  to  his  feelings,  for  Peggy's  sake? 
She  was  only  ten  when  her  mother  died. 
Certainly  her  need  was  plain.  But  he  had 
balked  the  issue,  as  a  man  will,  when  nothing 
occurs  to  bring  it  to  a  head.  Stephen  had  not 
perhaps  loved  his  wife  more  sincerely  than 
many  another  man,  but  he  had  been  less 
able  to  break  the  habit.  He  did  not  over- 
sentimentalize  the  situation,  but  he  never 
could  rid  himself  of  the  impression  that  he 
was  none  the  less  a  married  man,  because  of 
the  accident  of  Margaret's  death. 

Peggy's  father,  like  the  majority  of  Old 
Lady  Pratt 's  grandsons,  was  a  successful 
man  though,  being  long-headed  beyond  the 


234  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

average,  he  had  taken  his  time  about  it.  He 
had  even  spent  four  years  at  college;  not 
from  any  strong  bookish  tendency,  but  be- 
cause he  believed  in  a  college  degree  and 
college  affiliations,  as  a  good  asset  in  the 
banking  business.  Such  they  had  proved; 
and,  although  he  was  banker  and  broker  in  a 
very  small  way  as  measured  by  the  standards 
of  to-day,  he  had  made  what  Dunbridge 
accounted  a  great  deal  of  money.  He  loved 
money,  too,  not  so  much  for  what  it  might 
purchase,  as  for  that  vague,  far-reaching 
potentiality  that  spending  dissipates.  Which 
is  merely  a  euphuistic  way  of  stating  that  he 
was  what  Old  Lady  Pratt  would  have  charac- 
terized as  "a  little  near." 

"Call  it  contiguous,  and  done  with  it!" 
his  cousin,  Robert  Pratt,  had  once  burst  out. 
But  that  was  shortly  after  Stephen  had 
declined  to  "  accommodate "  his  cousin  on 
insufficient  security,  and  the  latter  wras  feeling 
rather  sore  about  it. 

To-night,  as  Peggy's  father  sat  there  in 
the  crude  gaslight,  his  brows  contracted  in 
thought,  his  newspaper  lying  forgotten  on  his 
knees,  the  mere  physique  of  the  man,  mod- 
elled as  it  was  on  lines  of  strict  economy, 
furnished  a  pretty  fair  index  of  his  character. 


Peggy's  Father.  235 

One  saw  at  a  glance  that  there  was  nothing 
large  about  Stephen,  nothing  in  the  least 
degree  expansive.  His  figure  was  close- 
reefed,  his  expression  in-drawn.  He  wore  no 
beard,  and  his  hair,  only  lightly  grizzled  at 
sixty,  was  so  judiciously  brushed  as  to  conceal 
any  possible  hiatus.  Nature  had  done  much 
assiduous  buttonholing  about  his  features; 
mouth,'  eyes,  nostrils,  all  seemed  fixed  in  a 
permanent  mould  by  the  series  of  faint 
convergent  wrinkles  that  looked  like  stitches 
of  a  painstaking  seamstress.  No  thoughtful 
observer  would  have  adjudged  the  man  cap- 
able of  spontaneous  action,  and,  by  the  same 
token,  none  would  have  hesitated  to  trust 
him  with  the  half  of  his  fortune.  If  Stephen 
Spencer  was  a  jealous  guardian  of  his  own 
interests,  he  would  prove  no  less  vigilant  in 
his  neighbor's  behalf, — at  so  and  so  much  per 
centum,  be  it  understood.  And  Stephen  was 
a  shrewd  investor, — a  conservative,  through 
and  through. 

A  shrewd  observer  of  men  he  was  too,  and 
little  as  he  had  yet  seen  of  Burke,  he  had 
already  sized  him  up  pretty  accurately.  A 
plague  on  the  fellow,  thought  Stephen.  If 
only  he  and  his  kind, — plausible,  meretri- 
cious, unscrupulous  as  sin, — would  let  the  girl 


236  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

alone,  Peggy's  father  could  take  better  care 
of  her  than  a  dozen  step-mothers !  At  which 
somewhat  oriental  burst  of  fancy,  the  "un- 
reconstructed widower"  resumed  his  paper, 
and  applied  himself  to  the  consideration  of  a 
threatened  international  imbroglio  which 
struck  him  as  being  far  less  complicated  than 
the  particular  botheration  which  he  had  on 
his  own  hands. 

Nor  was  it  the  international  imbroglio 
that  was  distracting  his  thoughts  when,  next 
morning,  he  sat  in  his  business  sanctum,  in 
the  city,  endeavoring  to  weigh  the  pros  and 
cons  of  a  projected  issue  of  railroad  bonds, 
the  financing  of  which  was  likely  to  be 
offered  to  his  house.  It  would  have  been 
less  annoying  to  forget  the  approximate 
figure  of  a  certain  floating  debt,  which  had 
a  bearing  upon  the  proposition,  because  of 
doubts  as  to  Mr.  Gladstone's  foreign  policy, 
than  because  a  little  chit  of  twenty  had  come 
home  from  a  party  in  a  state  of  artificial 
excitement.  An  impending  change  in  the 
face  of  Europe  was  distinctly  more  important 
than  a  heightened  color  in  the  cheek  of  Peggy. 
Yet  Peggy  it  was,  her  flushed  cheeks  and 
flippant  manner,  that  was  at  the  bottom  of 
that  lapse  of  memory  which  had  obliged  him 


Peggy's  Father.  237 

to  turn  back  several  pages  in  the  report  in 
question.  And  he  was  not  nearly  as  much 
put  out  as  he  might  otherwise  have  been 
when  presently  a  member  of  a  junior  broker- 
age firm  sent  his  name  in,  thus  obliging 
him  to  reserve  the  matter  in  hand  for  later 
consideration 

"Morning,"  Stephen  grunted,  as  his  caller 
entered. 

"Morning, "  was  Hickman's  counter-grunt. 
After  which  exchange  of  civilities,  the  younger 
man  dropped  into  a  chair  which  he  was 
at  least  not  forbidden  to  take,  and  got  to 
business. 

"I  believe  you  know  Harold  Burke,"  he 
observed,  tentatively. 

"Much  as  ever,"  was  the  indifferent  re- 
joinder. But  the  watch-dog  in  Stephen  was 
sniffing  the  air. 

"Thought  you  might.  He  comes  from 
your  town. " 

"Yes.  I  knew  his  father.  Died  some 
years  ago." 

"Man  of  means?" 

"Some,"  was  the  laconic  reply.  Stephen's 
business  was  to  listen,  not  talk. 

Hickman  shifted  in  his  chair,  preparatory 
to  making  a  fresh  start. 


238  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

"I  called  round,"  he  said,  "because  I 
thought  perhaps  you  might  like  to  take  over 
Burke's  account." 

"Well?" 

"The  market  dropped  so  hard  last  week 

that " 

•     Stephen's  eyes  narrowed. 

"Margin  running  out?"  he  inquired. 

"No;  not  yet.  But  it 's  on  the  cards,  of 
course,  and  we  thought,  if  it  should  come 
to  that,  and  if  you  were  a  friend  of  the 
family " 

"Yes,  yes;  I  see.     What 's  the  collateral?" 

"D  &  K  fives.  Does  seem  rather  gilt- 
edged  stuff  for  a  fellow  like  that  to  be  carry- 
ing; but  you  say  his  father  was  a  man  of 


means." 


Stephen  ruminated  a  few  seconds.     Then : 
"We  '11  take  up  the  account  if  you  like," 
he  said,  "and   if  Burke    agrees.     The  col- 
lateral 's  sound  enough." 

When,  a  day  or  two  later,  the  account  was 
made  over  to  him,  Stephen's  fingers  closed 
upon  those  D  &  K  fives  with  a  curious  sense 
of  having  got  his  man  where  he  wanted  him. 
Just  what  he  was  going  to  do  with  him  he 
would  have  been  at  a  loss  to  say.  But 
Stephen  could  always  afford  to  wait.  Mean- 


Peggy's  Father.  239 

while  he  had  signified  his  readiness  to  see 
Burke,  himself,  the  first  time  he  should  put  in 
an  appearance. 

"Well,"  the  broker  remarked,  as  his  new 
customer  sat  down,  and  glanced  about  the 
room  with  a  slightly  supercilious  interest  in 
its  meagre  appointments.  "So  you  're  going 
to  let  us  carry  your  account?" 

"Glad  to,  Mr.  Spencer.  Glad  to.  Noth- 
ing could  be  more  satisfactory." 

"Hm!"  was  the  compendious  rejoinder. 
Yet,  much  as  Stephen  disliked  amplification, 
his  conscience  forced  him  to  add:  "Nothing 
could  be  more  satisfactory  unless — keeping 
out  of  it  altogether  just  now. " 

"Queer  advice  from  a  broker." 

"We  often  give  queer  advice  here.  For 
instance," — Stephen  was  speaking  slowly 
and  weightily, — "we  usually  advise  our 
customers  to  let  the  market  alone  when  it 
has  the  jumps." 

"I  should  think  that  was  just  the  time  to 
catch  on,"  the  young  man  volunteered.  He 
really  felt  sorry  for  Peggy's  father.  Such 
golden  chances  as  must  come  his  way ! 

"Others  have  thought  so,"  was  the  some- 
what ambiguous  reply. 

"Well,    you    see,    Mr.    Spencer,"    Burke 


240  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

kindly  explained,  "I'm  in  the  market  to 
make  money.  You  can't  make  money  when 
the  market 's  in  the  doldrums." 

"No?" 

"Nor  you  can't  make  money,  if  you  '11 
excuse  me  for  saying  so,  by — keeping  out." 

"Hm!"  Stephen  commented. 

"You  '11  certainly  admit  that,  Mr.  Spen- 


cer/1 


"Oh,  yes. " 

Burke  reddened  with  vexation.  If  it 
had  n't  been  for  Peggy, — ah,  yes,  and  that 
collateral;  he  was  almost  forgetting  about 
that  in  the  pleasurable  exercise  of  instructing 
Peggy's  father, — he  would  have  openly  re- 
sented those  repetitious  monosyllables.  As  it 
was,  he  thought  better  of  it,  and  kept  his 
temper. 

All  the  same,  he  could  n't  spend  the  day 
listening  to  an  old  man's  platitudes,  and, 
with  an  ingenious  reversal  of  his  real  senti- 
ments, he  remarked,  as  he  pushed  back  his 
chair  and  got  on  his  feet : 

"I  know  your  time  is  valuable,  sir," — 
adding,  in  a  facetious  vein  which  struck 
him  as  ingratiating, — "It  's  quite  possible 
that  you  may  have  more  important  customers 
than  I." 


Peggy's  Father.  241 

"Not  at  all,"  Stephen  returned,  suavely, 
and  quite  truthfully  too;  for  it  crossed  his 
mind  that  this  was  probably  the  only  cus- 
tomer on  his  books  who  was  in  a  position  to 
give  him  a  bad  quarter  of  an  hour.  And 
Burke,  concluding  that  this  dull  old  file  was 
as  far  behind  the  times  in  manners  as  in 
methods,  repaired  to  the  main  office  with  a 
sense  of  getting  out  into  the  swim  again. 

Yet  when,  some  days  later,  the  market 
began  "jumping"  in  the  wrong  direction, 
his  mind  did  recur  to  the  "old  file"  as  a 
rather  particularly  desirable  father-in-law. 
If  only  that  tantalizing  Peggy  would  come 
to  terms !  What  tips  the  old  chap  must  have 
up  his  sleeve !  What  a  mint  of  money  he  must 
be  worth,  if  it  came  to  that,  and  Peggy  the 
apple  of  his  eye, — as  she  would  be  the  apple 
of  anybody's  eye  that  could  once  dislodge 
her  from  the  parent  stem.  But  (with  a 
lightning  change  of  metaphor),  the  little 
devil  was  skittish  as  the  stock-market  itself. 
Lucky  for  him  that  he  had  a  firm  hand  and  a 
steady  head,  or  she  might  yet  give  him  the 
slip, — she  and  that  other  gamble  of  which 
he  was  in  equally  hot  pursuit.  And  as  the 
passion  of  possession,  twofold  and  heavy 
handed,  gripped  him  anew,  a  certain  crease, 

16 


242  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

which  started  at  the  left-hand  corner  of  his 
mouth  and  made  a  bad  angle  with  the  jaw, 
showed  up  as  the  kind  that  frequently  de- 
faces " damaged  goods." 

That  crease  deepened  perceptibly  as  day 
by  day  the  market  became  more  skittish. 
The  stubborn  speculator  bought  and  sold, 
backed  and  filled,  usually,  though  not  always, 
at  the  wrong  moment,  and  with  each  wild 
clutch  at  that  cavorting  steed,  whose  bridle 
seemed  to  be  merely  an  ingenious  contriv- 
ance of  tape  and  ticker  which  any  man  of 
spirit  might  get  the  hang  of,  more  collateral 
was  required,  more  sinews  for  the  struggle, 
and  always  more  collateral  was  forthcoming. 

And  Stephen,  from  the  vantage-ground  of 
his  private  sanctum,  watched  the  frantic 
plunges  of  his  cock-sure  customer,  examined 
the  steadily  increasing  collateral,  and  told 
himself  that  the  source  thereof  was  matter  of 
pure  conjecture.  If,  when  the  predestined 
crash  came,  something  more  than  a  fortune 
were  to  go  by  the  board,  if  the  upshot  of  all 
this  folly  should  be  moral  as  well  as  financial 
discomfiture, — well,  there  would  at  least  be 
an  end  of  the  fallen  angel  business.  Lucifer 
himself,  floundering  in  the  mud,  could  hardly 
avoid  cutting  an  inglorious  figure.  And 


Peggy's  Father.  24$ 

again  the  broker  told  himself  that  it  was  of 
course  none  of  his  business,  but  it  was  odd 
that  a  man  of  Burke's  proclivities  should 
control  so  many  high-class  securities.  His 
father,  to  be  sure,  had  been  a  careful  investor, 
and  no  doubt  Mrs.  Burke  had  plenty  of  good 
stuff  in  her  strong-box.  But  he  certainly 
did  not  propose  meddling  in  his  neighbor's 
affairs  to  the  extent  of  looking  over  old 
accounts  and  finding  out  whether  it  really 
was  D  &  K  fives  and  Merrivale  debentures 
that  the  elder  Burke  had  purchased  for  his 
wife  when  she  came  into  her  property  along 
in  the  seventies.  If  there  was  one  species 
of  duffer  that  Stephen  despised  more  than 
another,  it  was  an  inquisitive  stock-broker. 

Meanwhile,  here  was  Peggy,  capricious  in 
her  moods  as  the  market  itself, — a  simile 
which,  as  we  know,  that  young  lady's  present 
critic  was  not  the  first  to  hit  upon, — and 
Stephen,  keenly  alive  to  the  situation,  was 
too  wary  an  operator  to  invite  disaster  by 
any  premature  move.  He  would  bide  his 
time. 

At  last  there  came  an  evening  when  Peggy 
herself  gave  the  signal  for  action,  and  in  un- 
mistakable terms. 

Her  father  had  been  watching  her  from 


244  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

the  ambush  of  his  newspaper,  as  she  sat  in  a 
low  rocking-chair  pretending  to  read  Bar- 
Chester  Towers;  then,  jumping  up  so  sud- 
denly that  the  rockers  beat  a  tattoo  on  the 
floor,  passed  into  the  next  room  and  began 
drumming  on  the  piano,  only  to  stop  short 
off  and  run  up-stairs,  apparently  with  the  sole 
purpose  of  running  down  again;  finally 
ensconcing  herself  in  a  corner  of  the  sofa, 
where  she  sat  cutting  the  leaves  of  Harper's 
Monthly.  The  engaging  little  boy  depicted 
upon  the  cover  of  that  already  veteran 
periodical,  earnestly  playing  cup-and-ball 
with  a  bewildering  number  of  soap-bubbles, 
should  have  been  a  lesson  to  her  in  concen- 
tration. Yet,  after  a  few  minutes,  she  tossed 
the  magazine  to  one  side  and  sat  there, 
gazing  across  the  room  into  the  fire,  for  all 
the  world  as  if  her  own  last  bubble  had 
incontinently  burst. 

"Well?"  her  father  queried;  and  there  was 
no  need  of  adding,  "What 's  the  matter?'* 
so  used  was  Peggy  to  those  monosyllables  of 
his. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  she  answered.  Whereupon 
the  inquirer  tranquilly  resumed  his  paper. 

She  watched  him  out  of  the  tail  of  her  eye, 
in  a  manner  peculiar  to  very  astute  persons. 


Peggy's  Father.  245 

What  did  he  find  in  that  stupid  old  paper, 
anyway?  Always  the  same  thing.  She 
did  n't  believe  he  would  ever  know  the 
difference  if  the  date  were  to  be  changed. 
And  real  life  so  intensely  interesting!  At 
which  point  she  heaved  a  terrific  sigh. 

"Did  you  say  anything?"  Stephen  in- 
quired. 

"Yes;  I  did." 

"What?" 

"I  said  I  wished  you  were  not  so  preju- 
diced." 

"Hm!    About  what?" 

"About  any  man  that  asks  me  to  marry 
him,  if  you  insist  upon  knowing." 

Stephen  laid  down  his  paper. 

"So  he  has  had  the  effrontery  to  make  you 
an  offer?" 

"If  you  choose  to  put  it  that  way. " 

"And  you?" 

"Oh,  I  told  him  he  needn't  be  in  such  a 
hurry." 

"Well?" 

"He  says  I  shall  come  to  it.  He  says 
I  Ve  got  to. " 

"But  you  have  n't." 

"Have  n't  I?"  There  was  a  droop  in  the 
girl's  voice  that  misliked  him  rudely. 


246  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

"Come,  come,'*  he  remonstrated.  "Don't 
be  a  little  fool." 

At  that  she  sank  back  among  the  cushions 
and,  flinging  her  arms  above  her  head  in  the 
very  abandonment  of  lassitude,  murmured, 
"I  sometimes  think  I  should  like  to." 

1 '  Peggy ! ' '  cried  Stephen,  sharply.  ' '  You  're 
mooning,  and  I  'm  ashamed  of  you!" 

"Are  you?"  she  queried,  unblushingly 
continuing  to  moon.  "Oh,  dear!  It  does 
make  it  so  difficult. " 

"Mooning?" 

"No, — you.     If  only  you  liked  him !" 

"Then  there  'd  be  two  fools  in  the  family. 
One  's  enough,  in  all  conscience." 

A  long  silence  ensued,  during  which  Ste- 
phen, picking  up  his  paper,  endeavored  to  fix 
his  mind  on  Mr.  Gladstone's  comparatively 
negligible  embarrassments. 

Presently — ' '  Papa, ' '  she  mused.  ' '  Did  you 
ever  notice  your  bete  noire1  s  eyes,  the  way 
they  follow  you  round?" 

"Yes,"  was  the  curt  reply.  "That  's  how 
I  first  discovered  that  he  was  damaged 
goods. " 

"Funny!  Now,  I  Ve  noticed  them  too, 
and  that 's  why  I  can't  say  no." 

"You  can  if  you  try,"  Stephen  asserted; 


Peggy's  Father 
She  essayed  to  pull  her  hand  free,  but  he  held  it  fast. 


Peggy's  Father.  247 

and  his  tone  was  so  authoritative  that  it  took 
Peggy  back  to  the  time  before  her  mother 
died,  when  she  used  to  have  to  mind.  She 
rather  liked  it,  too.  It  seemed  for  the 
moment  to  relieve  her  of  responsibility. 

She  got  up,  and  came  toward  him  with  a 
wavering  air,  half  defiant,  half  appealing,  and 
wholly  foreign  to  the  natural  spirit  of  the 
girl. 

"I  think  I'll  go  to  bed,"  she  said,  and 
stooped  to  kiss  him  good-night.  He  knew 
she  was  thinking  of  his  last  words. 

Detaining  her  for  an  instant,  and  looking 
straight  into  her  eyes,  "You  can,  Peggy, 
if  you  try, "  he  said  again. 

She  essayed  to  pull  her  hand  free,  but  he 
held  it  fast.  He  was  stronger  than  she; 
there  was  no  denying  it.  Yes,  he  was  the 
stronger.  And  again  the  sense  of  authority 
possessed  her,  and  again  it  seemed  to  her 
good. 

"I  wish  you  'd  make  me,"  she  said,  under 
her  breath,  as,  with  an  adroit  movement,  she 
snatched  her  hand  away.  But  on  the 
threshold  she  paused  to  call  back,  "If  you 
don't — he  will!"  And  she  was  gone. 

And  again,  as  on  the  evening  of  the  dance, 
Stephen  sat  where  she  had  left  him,  ponder- 


248  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

ing  the  thing  she  had  said.  The  fire  burned 
low,  while  silence  fell  upon  the  house,  and 
still  he  sat  on,  pondering,  pondering  the 
thing  she  had  said:  "  If  you  don't, — he  will." 

He  knew  well  enough  that  she  never 
would  have  challenged  him,  had  she  believed 
in  his  power  to  deter  her;  that  the  little  villain 
was  only  shifting  the  responsibility  upon  him, 
while  keeping  the  game  in  her  own  hands. 
She  had  not  said:  "I  wish  you  would  forbid 
it."  That  would  have  been  a  simple  matter, 
and  of  doubtful  efficacy.  She  had  said: 
"I  wish  you  would  make  me!"  There  was 
something  quite  touchingly  ingenuous  about 
this  strategy  of  Peggy's,  instinctive  refuge 
that  it  was  of  a  mind  chafing  under  alien 
subjugation.  The  girl  simply  was,  yes,  she 
was,  in  love.  All  that  trash  about  the 
fellow's  eyes  was  as  sure  a  symptom  as  a 
ream  of  raptures.  Peggy  was  in  love,  his 
Peggy,  with  the  quick  ardors  of  her  mother, 
and  her  father's  innate  obstinacy, — a  dan- 
gerous combination  for  a  girl  in  love  with  a 
scoundrel. 

Yet  nothing  her  father  could  say  would 
mend  matters,  so  far  at  least  as  her  feeling  was 
concerned,  which  after  all  was  the  essential 
thing.  For  Stephen  had  no  mind  to  be  left 


Peggy's  Father.  249 

with  a  love-lorn  damsel  on  his  hands.  That 
would  be  a  handful  indeed!  She  must  be 
cured,  not  coerced.  She  must  be  made  to 
understand  the  worthlessness  of  the  man. 
Already  she  knew  that  there  was  something 
wrong  about  him;  so  much  she  had  herself 
admitted.  In  her  eyes  he  was  already 
adorned  with  the  sort  of  nimbus  that  attaches 
to  the  Captain  Kidds  of  romance,  the  Roches- 
ters  of  fiction ;  and,  thanks  to  a  girlish  wrong- 
headedness, — a  girlish  innocence,  too, — she 
must  needs  own  herself  attracted,  nay,  be- 
devilled, by  it. 

"I  can't  say  no,"  she  had  declared.  He, 
her  father,  was  to  "make  her."  And  as 
Stephen  pondered  her  words,  there  moved 
somewhere  in  the  back  of  his  mind  a  reluct- 
ant consciousness  that  it  was  in  his  power  to 
do  so,  by  the  only  effective  means:  namely, 
by  giving  the  man  a  chance  to  show  himself 
up  in  his  true  colors.  What  was  that  he  had 
himself  said  about  the  despised  Miss  Nancy 
kind  of  man?  He  might  n't  be  on  sale? 
Well,  there  'd  be  no  hitch  of  that  sort  when  it 
came  to  dealing  with  Harold  Burke.  He 
was  safe  to  have  his  price. 

And  what  if  he  had?  How  could  that 
affect  Stephen  Spencer?  When  had  he 


250  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

ever  stooped  to  bribery  and  corruption?  A 
dubious  enterprise  at  best,  and  costly  too. 
Why,  the  man  was  already  up  to  his  ears  in 
difficulties.  A  pretty  penny  it  would  take 
to  pull  him  out!  Not  that  the  prettiness  of 
the  penny  had  any  special  bearing  on  the 
case.  It  was  on  the  highest  moral  grounds 
that  Stephen  repudiated  the  idea  of, — yes, 
that  was  the  matter  in  a  nutshell, — the  idea 
of  compounding  with  iniquity. 

Thus  did  Peggy's  father,  usually  so  chary 
of  words,  so  discreet  of  thought  even,  beguile 
himself  with  fine-sounding  phrases,  in  de- 
fence of — what?  Why,  of  that  penny,  to  be 
sure,  that  penny,  to  the  prettiness  of  which 
he  feigned  a  Spartan  indifference. 

And,  by  the  irony  of  circumstance,  it  was 
not  concern  for  Peggy  that  finally  brought 
him  right  about  face.  It  was  concern  for 
another  woman,  one  with  whom  he  had  but 
a  bowing  acquaintance;  and  that  woman  was 
none  other  than  Harold  Burke's  mother. 

He  met  her  on  the  street  one  day,  a  hand- 
some, rather  showy  personage,  who  held  her 
head  high.  And  it  suddenly  struck  Stephen 
that  she  would  not  find  it  easy  to  hold  her 
head  like  that  when  she  knew  the  truth,— 
when  she  awoke  some  morning  to  find  herself 


Peggy's  Father.  251 

the  mother  of  a  rascal.  As  the  thought 
assailed  Stephen,  not  in  the  form  of  words, 
which  may  be  juggled  with,  but  as  a  picture, 
a  series  of  pictures,  definite,  convincing,  as 
the  figure  of  the  woman  herself,  to  whom  he 
was  in  the  act  of  lifting  his  hat,  he  knew  for  an 
absolute  certainty  that  those  bonds  her  son 
had  been  playing  fast  and  loose  with  were  her 
property;  and  what  is  more,  he  knew  that  he 
had  known  it  all  along. 

It  chanced  that  on  the  day  in  question 
things  went  from  bad  to  worse  in  Burke's 
affairs;  his  margin  dwindled  to  danger-point. 
If  the  market  did  not  speedily  recover, 
or  if  no  reinforcements  were  forthcoming, 
the  man  would  be  sold  out :  not  through  any 
hostile  action  on  Stephen's  part,  but  in  the 
ordinary  process  of  business  routine. 

The  day  passed,  and  in  neither  quarter  had 
relief  materialized. 

Next  morning  the  broker  sent  for  Burke 
and,  in  a  few  curt  sentences,  spoke  his  mind. 
The  man  behaved  much  as  was  to  have  been 
anticipated.  He  denied  nothing,  he  extenu- 
ated nothing.  His  pose  was  not  that  of  in- 
jured innocence  even.  He  merely  intrenched 
himself  in  his  right  as  an  "operator"  to  be 
sole  judge  of  his  own  methods.  As  for  the 


252  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

securities, — assuming  for  argument's  sake 
that  they  were  the  property  of  his  mother,  he 
must  still  hold  himself  accountable  to  no  man. 
She  had  placed  her  affairs  in  her  son's  hands 
without  reserve;  she  would  be  the  last  to 
recognize  the  pretentions  of  an  outsider  to 
intermeddle  between  them.  However,  if  Mr. 
Spencer  would  feel  more  comfortable  about 
it,  Burke  was  quite  ready  to  transfer  his 
account  elsewhere;  Mr.  Spencer  had  but  to 
say  the  word. 

Now  this  was  nothing  more  nor  less  than 
vaporing, — last  resort  of  a  man  in  a  bad 
fix;  and  Stephen  knew  that  the  fellow  was 
cornered. 

"Mr.  Burke,"  he  said,  quietly.  "My 
object  in  bringing  up  this  matter  was  to  pave 
the  way  to  offering  you  assistance, — very 
material  assistance. " 

For  one  irrational  moment  Burke  wondered 
if  this  were  Peggy's  doing, — if  she  had 
wheedled  her  father  into  approving  his  suit. 

"Have  you—  "  he  stammered;  for  the  idea 
was  a  heady  one,  and  it  caught  him  at  low 
rations. 

"Yes,  I  have  my  reasons  for  interesting  my- 
self in  your  affairs.  I  am  acting  in  behalf  of 
two  women, — my  daughter  and  your  mother. " 


Peggy's  Father.  253 

At  that  Burke  came  to  his  senses. 

"Whatever your  motive  may  be  in  regard 
to  Peggy, "  he  began,  cautiously. 

"To  my  daughter/*  Stephen  interpolated. 
"It  is  only  as  my  daughter  that  she  concerns 
you,  sir." 

That  "sir"  was  like  the  first  prick  of 
the  blade  in  the  hands  of  a  sure  swords- 
man. It  stung.  Burke  was  not  a  good 
loser. 

"If  she  concerns  me  only  as  your  daugh- 
ter," he  cried,  hotly,  "I  fail  to  see  how  my 
mother  concerns  you  at  all." 

"Then,  in  the  name  of  your  mother 
you  would  feel  justified  in  declining  my 
assistance?" 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  that  ugly 
crease  at  the  young  man's  lip  stood  out  as 
never  before.  Stephen  sat,  absently  drum- 
ming with  his  fingers  on  the  arm  of  his  chair. 
He  was  in  no  hurry ;  he  had  his  man. 

At  last  Burke  spoke. 

"If  you  have  a  business  proposition  to 
make,"  he  said,  with  carefully  simulated 
nonchalance,  "I  am,  of  course,  bound  to 
hear  it." 

Upon  that,  Stephen  drew  from  among  the 
papers  lying  on  his  desk  a  closely  written 


254  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

sheet, — a  detailed  statement,  as  transpired, 
of  Burke's  account  to  date. 

11  Your  liabilities  at  close  of  business  yester- 
day, Mr.  Burke,"  he  observed,  running  his 
eye  down  the  debit  column,  "amounted  to 
the  sum  of  $27,561.34,  covered,  with  a  very 
narrow  margin  to  the  good,  by  the  various 
securities  placed  with  us  as  collateral.  It  is 
plain  that  unless  you  are  in  a  position  to 
redeem  these  securities,  it  would  hardly 
stand  within  your  option  to — transfer  your 
account. " 

Burke  checked  a  movement  to  speak. 

"Now,  after  due  consideration,"  Stephen 
went  on,  "I  have  decided  to  remit  the  amount 
of  your  indebtedness  to  Stephen  Spencer  & 
Co.,  on  two  conditions.  First,  that  you 
induce  your  mother  to  put  these  bonds, 
which,  I  take  it,  comprise  the  bulk  of  her 
negotiable  securities,  in  charge  of  some 
business  man  of  repute,  whom  you  and  she 
may  select,  subject  to  my  approval.  You  can 
easily  convince  her  of  the  advisability  of  the 
step,  since  she  places  such  implicit  confidence 
in  your  judgment  and  integrity." 

The  tell-tale  crease  at  Burke's  lip  took  on 
an  uglier  twist,  but  he  remained  silent. 

"Secondly,  that  you  subscribe  to  an  agree- 


Peggy's  Father.  255 

ment  which  I  myself  have  drawn  up,  by 
the  terms  of  which,  and  in  consideration  of 
value  received,  you  formally  and  definitively 
renounce  your  suit  for  my  daughter's  hand. 
Here  it  is."  And  with  that,  Stephen 
produced  a  paper  of  his  own  inditing  and, 
passing  it  over  to  his  customer,  settled 
back  in  his  chair  to  await  developments. 

Burke  examined  the  brief  document  with 
needless  deliberation.  He  knew  as  well  as 
its  author,  that  this  was  no  instrument  to  be 
tested  in  the  courts ;  that  it  was  of  value  only 
as  it  might  affect  Peggy,  who  alone  would  be 
called  to  pass  judgment  upon  it.  Nor  was 
she  likely  to  err  for  lack  of  illuminating  com- 
mentary. "This  lover  of  yours,"  her  father 
would  explain,  in  his  dryest  manner,  "this 
precious  lover  of  yours,  who  would  n't  take 
no  for  an  answer,  has  thrown  you  over  in 
return  for  so  and  so  many  dollars  and  cents. 
Very  well,  then;  either  he  is  a  renegade  and 
sticks  to  his  bargain,  or  he  is  a  blackguard 
and  breaks  it.  Which  will  you  have?" 

Yet,  impossible  as  it  was  to  blink  the  ugly 
facts,  Burke  was  in  no  mood  to  stomach  them. 
While  studying  the  proposition  in  all  its 
enormity,  he  was  very  collectedly  weighing 
the  risks  involved  in  rejecting  it  out  of  hand. 


256  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

The  impulse  to  do  so  was  so  strong  that  his 
native  assurance  rose  to  it.  A  man's  con- 
viction of  his  own  invincibility  dies  hard. 

"You  are  perhaps  not  aware,  Mr.  Spencer, " 
he  announced,  with  the  crude  self-assertive- 
ness  which  was  second  nature  to  him,  "that 
since  last  evening  your  daughter  is  as  good  as 
engaged  to  me." 

It  was  a  home-thrust,  and  it  hurt  badly. 
If  the  tale  was  true,  and  it  well  might  be,  for 
Peggy  herself  had  given  fair  warning,  it  did 
certainly  complicate  matters,  in  so  far  as  it 
must  cruelly  enhance  the  girl's  mortification 
at  the  sordid  bargain  of  which  she  had  been 
made  the  object.  Yet  more  disquieting  still 
was  the  bald  assurance  of  the  fellow's  tone, 
the  insolent  challenge  of  those  remorseless 
eyes.  The  man's  attitude  at  the  moment 
was  a  revelation  of  the  sort  of  power  that  he 
might  exercise  over  an  impressionable  girl, 
giving  her  no  rest,  no  respite,  until  there 
stirred  within  her  an  insidious  desire  to  yield, 
there  where  she  had  so  long  resisted.  Had 
she  not  herself  declared:  "If  you  don't, 
—he  will"? 

Well,  if  she  had  lost  her  head,  all  the  more 
important  that  her  father  should  keep  his. 
And  there  was  nothing  in  Stephen's  manner 


Peggy's  Father.  257 

to  betray  the  harsh  misgivings  that  galled 
him  as  he  answered: 

"  If  I  really  believed  that  my  daughter  were 
'as  good  as  engaged'  to  you, — whatever 
that  may  mean, — it  would  not  affect  my 
action.  That  paper  which  you  hold,  to- 
gether with  the  other  condition  named,  is 
an  ultimatum." 

"And  if  I  reject  it?" 

"The  alternative  would  seem  to  be  ob- 


vious." 


Burke  stood  up.  He  was  beaten,  and  he 
knew  it,  but 

"I  suppose  you  will  allow  me  a  few  hours 
for  consideration,"  he  said,  with  a  vain 
pretence  at  being  a  free  agent. 

"A  few  minutes,  yes.  Not  a  few  hours. 
The  market  closes  at  twelve  on  Saturday. 
Think  it  over,  by  all  means,  however.  But" 
—as  Burke  made  as  if  to  go — "here  in 
my  office.  If  you  cross  the  threshold  with- 
out having  given  me  your  signature,  the 
transaction  is  off." 

Upon  that,  Stephen  touched  a  bell  on  his 
desk,  and  a  messenger  appeared. 

Without  further  consideration  of  Burke's 
attitude,  the  broker  asked,  "Has  Mr.  Ap- 
good  got  back  from  the  vaults?  Hm! 


258  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

Ask  him  to  bring  me  Mr.  Burke's  collateral. 
Mr.  Burke  is  closing  his  account  with  us." 
And  in  silence  the  two  men  waited. 

Burke  had  stepped  to  a  side  window  which 
gave  upon  a  narrow  well.  He  stood  staring 
at  the  panes,  quite  unaware  that  they  were 
of  ground  glass,  while  Stephen,  making  no 
pretence  of  indifference,  waited  the  coming 
of  Apgood.  A  church  clock  in  the  distance 
was  striking  eleven  as  the  clerk  came  in  and 
placed  a  bulky  envelope  upon  the  desk. 

"What's  Windermere  doing?"  Stephen  in- 
quired casually.  He  could  almost  see  Burke 
prick  his  ears. 

"Forty-six  and  a  quarter,  sir." 

"Hm!  Quick  work,"  was  the  pungent  com- 
ment. "Two  points  off  since  opening." 
And  he  glanced  again  at  Burke's  ears,  which 
as  a  matter  of  fact  had  remained  totally 
non-committal.  Indeed,  Stephen  it  was 
whose  countenance  played  him  a  trick.  For, 
as  he  sat,  balancing  the  goodly  packet  in  his 
hand  after  Apgood  left  the  room,  a  twinge 
of  chagrin  pulled  his  lip  awry.  They  were 
practically  his,  these  securities;  he  was  pay- 
ing for  them  twice  over;  and  to  what  purpose? 
He  had  only  to  have  let  things  take  their 
course;  Lucifer  was  safe  to  have  got  his  mud- 


Peggy's  Father.  259 

bath,  at  no  expense  to  any  one  but  himself; 
while  these  bonds,  to  which  Stephen  already 
possessed  the  indisputable  title,  these  bonds 
which  were  already  his 

Yet,  stay!  Was  it  then  his,  this  sorry 
plunder  that  he  was  covetously  nosing  and 
pawing?  Gammon!  Supposing  he  had  paid 
for  it!  More  fool  he!  You  can't  buy  out 
Peter  by  subsidizing  Paul.  And,  as  if  to 
clinch  the  argument,  Stephen  reached  for  a 
pen,  squared  the  envelope  on  the  desk  before 
him  and,  having  drawn  a  line  through  the 
superscription,  proceeded  to  write  above 
it,  in  his  cramped  but  particularly  legible 
hand,  "Property  of  Mrs.  Dawson  Burke." 

When,  a  moment  later,  Burke  turned  and 
crossed  the  room,  his  antagonist  was  in  the 
act  of  depositing  a  stout,  oblong  packet  in  his 
private  safe. 

"I  shall  hear  from  your  mother  early  in 
the  week?  "  the  broker  asked,  without  looking 
round. 

Whereupon  Burke,  giving  a  snarl  of  affirma- 
tion, seated  himself,  and  affixed  his  signature 
to  the  damaging  agreement  as  mechanically 
as  he  had  examined  those  unremunerative 
window-panes. 

As  he  flung  down  the  pen  and  shoved  back 


260  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

his  chair,  Stephen  came  up  behind  him  and, 
resting  his  hand  on  the  young  man's  shoulder, 
said,  gravely  and  not  unkindly : 

''You  Ve  got  your  chance,  Harold  Burke, 
your  chance  of  being  an  honest  man — and  a 
good  son.  Mind  you  don't  miss  it."  And 
in  dogged  sullenness  Burke  walked  out  of  the 
room. 

"And  now  for  Peggy,"  Stephen  muttered, 
as  he  picked  up  the  incriminating  document 
and,  with  a  rueful  grimace,  slipped  it  into  his 
pocket.  He  wished  he  had  n't  got  to  see  the 
child's  face  when  the  purport  of  the  thing 
dawned  upon  her.  Oh,  yes,  it  would  be  an 
eye-opener ;  no  doubt  as  to  that.  But  Peggy's 
father  had  always  been  rather  squeamish 
when  it  came  to  surgery,  actual  or  figurative. 
Since  there  was  no  help  for  it,  however,  the 
sooner  it  was  over  the  better.  Accordingly, 
at  close  of  business,  as  was  his  custom  of  a 
Saturday,  Stephen  took  the  Dunbridge  horse- 
car  and  went  home  to  luncheon. 

As  he  left  the  car  and  passed  up  his  own 
street,  where  the  snow  lay  hard-packed  under 
bare,  spreading  elm-branches,  his  eye  was 
caught  by  an  approaching  figure,  the  only 
moving  object  in  a  winter-locked  scene. 


Peggy's  Father.  261 

"Sneak!"  he  ejaculated,  between  his  teeth. 

The  two  men  passed  each  other  without  a 
sign  of  recognition,  but  not  so  quickly  but 
that  Stephen  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  lowering 
face.  Whether  anger  or  chagrin  predomi- 
nated was  not  apparent,  but  whatever  had 
produced  that  scowl,  the  sight  of  it  was  meat 
and  drink  to  Stephen.  He  entered  his  own 
gate,  closed  it  carefully  behind  him,  and 
walked  up  the  path,  with  a  sense  of  being 
master  in  his  own  domain,  such  as  he  had  not 
enjoyed  in  many  a  long  day. 

Nor  did  that  agreeable  impression  lack 
speedy  confirmation.  For,  no  sooner  had 
his  latch-key  touched  the  lock  than  the  door 
flew  open,  and  Peggy  stood  before  him. 
She  had  the  look  of  an  avenging  spirit — 
a  circumstance  which  rendered  only  more 
flattering  the  impetuosity  with  which  she 
flung  her  arms  around  his  neck,  crying  : 

"Oh,  papa!  You  blessed  darling!  I  am 
so  glad  to  get  you  back!" 

Eagerly,  breathlessly,  she  helped  him  off 
with  his  overcoat  and  hung  up  his  hat  on  its 
particular  peg,  and  together  they  passed  into 
the  familiar  den,  swept  clean  to-day  alike  of 
evening  shadows  and  of  artificial  lights.  The 
temperate  winter  sun  was  shining  in  at  the 


262  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

bay  window;  the  fire  in  the  grate  was  burning 
in  a  steady,  business-like  way.  As  Stephen 
stood  on  the  hearth-rug,  spreading  cold  hands 
to  the  friendly  glow,  he  could  hear  the  click 
of  silver  in  the  dining-room,  where  Nora  was 
laying  the  table  for  luncheon,  while  a  pleasing 
suggestion  of  something  broiling  was  wafted 
in  through  the  swinging  pantry  doors,  plying 
back  and  forth  with  a  sound  as  of  a  flapping 
sail.  Hour  and  place  seemed  peculiarly 
favorable  for  straight-forward  daylight  con- 
fidences. Yet  that  incalculable  Peggy,  though 
visibly  tingling  with  excitement,  had  appar- 
ently fallen  dumb.  And  for  a  second  time 
Stephen  found  himself  taking  the  initiative 
in  this  ticklish  business. 

"Did  he  come  to  say  good-bye?"  he 
inquired,  with  studied  composure,  as  he  drew 
up  a  chair,  and  seated  himself  close  before 
the  fire. 

"He  did  n't  stop  to  say  good-bye," 
was  the  succinct  rejoinder;  and,  for  once, 
Peggy's  father  wished  she  would  talk  a  bit 
faster. 

"Well,  out  with  it,"  he  prodded.  "What's 
happened?" 

"He  's  gone." 

"Gone  for  good?" 


Peggy's  Father.  263 

"Good,  bad,  or  indifferent, — it 's  all  one  to 
me.  He  's  gone!" 

"Well?" 

"He  wanted  me  to  marry  him — to  marry 
him  right  away."  She  was  speaking  fast 
enough  now,  as  if  eager  to  have  it  over. 
"He  said  he  'd  got  to  go  away  at  once.  He 
would  n't  ask  me  to  go  with  him,  because  he 
had  lost  all  his  money,  and  had  got  to  begin 
again.  But  if  only  I  would  marry  him,  if  he 
could  only  know  that  I  belonged  to  him,  it 
would  be  something  to  work  for,  it  would  give 
him  courage  for  the  fight.  He  wanted  me  to 
slip  away  with  him  this  very  morning,  and 
get  it  done.  He  said  nobody  need  know 
until  he  came  back  for  me." 

"Well?" 

"He  was  really  quite  pathetic,  and  I  did 
feel  sorry  for  him.  Besides,  I  had  half  pro- 
mised, and — oh,  papa,  I  thought  I  wanted 
to  do  it.  It  seemed  such  an  easy  way  of  hav- 
ing it  settled  and  done  with,  and  it  need  n't 
have  changed  anything  for  a  long  time  to 
come.  But  I  said  of  course  I  could  n't  do 
such  a  thing  behind  your  back." 

"Well?" 

"He  got  very  much  excited,  and  asked  me 
if  I  loved  you  better  than  I  loved  him.  And 


264  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

before  I  knew  what  I  was  about,  I  had  said 
yes!" 

"And  what  made  you  say  that,  Peggy ?" 
Stephen's  voice  sounded  rather  husky. 

"Because  it  was  the  truth,"  she  flashed. 
"The  moment  I  had  said  it,  I  knew.  And 
then  I  knew  it  had  all  been  a  crazy  dream, 
and  I  told  him  so,  straight  out." 

"And  he?" 

"He  got  perfectly  furious.  He  said  I  owed 
it  to  him  to  do  just  whatever  he  wanted, 
because — because ' ' 

"Because— what?" 

"Because  it  was  through  you  that  he  had 
been  ruined.  That  Stephen  Spencer  &  Co. 
had  led  him  on  to  gamble;  that  you  had  lent 
him  money,  and  made  everything  easy  for 
him,  and  then,  when  things  went  wrong, 
you  had  sold  him  out." 

The  button-holing  about  Stephen's  lips 
was  drawn  so  tight  that  they  were  barely 
able  to  form  the  syllable,  "Well?" 

Peggy's  breath  came  fast,  and  there  was 
that  in  the  young  eyes  that  made  the  glowing 
coals  look  dull. 

"I  told  him  that  was  enough,"  she  hurried 
on.  "That  if  he  did  not  leave  the  room,  I 
should.  And  then — he  lost  all  control  of 


Peggy's  Father.  265 

himself,  and  I—  "  the  rush  of  words  halted. 
It  was  in  a  voice,  low-pitched,  but  on  edge 
with  scorn  and  repulsion  that  Peggy  added, 
"I  knew,  then,  what  you  had  meant  by 
— damaged  goods." 

Stephen  regarded  her  keenly.  In  an  hour 
his  little  Peggy  had  grown  into  a  woman. 
She  could  defend  herself,  now ;  she  was  safe. 
Slowly  he  drew  from  his  pocket  a  folded 
paper,  and,  leaning  forward,  placed  it  with 
careful  exactitude  on  the  coals,  where  licking 
flames  crumpled  it  to  ash. 

And  Peggy,  a  trifle  disconcerted  by  the 
apparent  irrelevance  of  the  little  rite, 
dropped  on  her  knees  beside  him,  with  a 
view  to  fixing  his  attention.  But  there 
was  no  need  of  that;  her  father's  mind 
had  not  wandered. 

Looking  down  into  her  face,  and  passing 
his  hand  very  gently  over  the  spirited  young 
head, — 

"Little  Margaret,"  he  whispered. 

He  had  rarely  called  her  by  her  mother's 
name,  and  never  with  that  lingering  accent. 
The  girl's  eyes  softened,  and  something 
sparkled  on  the  lashes.  But  almost  instantly 
she  brushed  it  off  and,  scrambling  hastily 
to  her  feet, — for,  although  Peggy  had  shame- 


266  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

lessly  mooned,  the  real  Margaret  was  still  a 
bit  shy  of  her  own  emotions, — 

"So  you  see  it  was  you,"  she  declared,  with 
a  saucy  toss  which  did  not  deceive  anybody, 
11  It  was  you  that  made  me  do  it,  just  as  I 
told  you  to  I1' 


VIII. 

THE  DEAN  OF  THE  BOARDING- 
HOUSE. 

"    A      BOARDING-HOUSE  is  no  place  for 
A      a  child." 

**•  Thus  spoke  Arabella  Spencer,  the 
dean  of  the  boarding-house,  and  none  had 
the  temerity  to  dispute  her.  Even  the  in- 
judicious petting  of  the  child  in  question, 
an  engaging  little  three-year-old  answer- 
ing to  the  name  of  "Dimple,"  was  discreetly 
abandoned ;  whereupon  the  little  tot,  with  an 
indifference  anything  but  flattering,  trans- 
ferred her  attention  to  a  jointed  wooden  doll, 
some  seven  inches  long,  whose  sole  attire  for 
the  moment  consisted  in  a  neat  crop  of 
painted  hair.  If  Dimple,  in  the  care  with 
which  she  was  wrapping  a  scant  bit  of  pink 
calico  about  the  attenuated  form,  evinced  a 
rudimentary  sense  of  the  value  of  raiment  in  a 
cold  and  critical  world,  we  may  be  sure  that 
she  found  nothing  amiss  in  the  painted  hair. 
Who  would  not  prefer  it  to  the  kind  that  got 
267 


268  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

into  horrid  snarls  and  had  to  be  combed  and 
tweaked  into  order? 

As  the  child  immersed  herself  in  maternal 
cares,  the  dean  of  the  boarding-house,  who 
was  similarly  engaged, — save  that  the  small 
flannel  petticoat  she  was  cat-stitching  would 
appear  to  be  destined  for  alien  offspring, — 
glanced  from  time  to  time,  and  with  a  grudg- 
ing interest,  at  the  little  mother.  No,  a 
boarding-house  was  no  place  for  a  child;  nor 
was  it,  superficially  considered,  the  fitting 
place  for  a  well-to-do  daughter  of  the  Pratts 
and  Spencers.  A  stranger,  learning  of  the 
eminent  lineage  of  Arabella  Spencer,  might 
well  have  asked  what  untoward  fate  had 
brought  her  to  this  pass,  though  for  the  initi- 
ated the  key  to  the  riddle  was  not  far  to  seek. 
"My  grandfather  built  this  house/*  she  took 
pride  in  stating;  "my  father  owned  it,  and  my 
mother  lived  in  it  for  upwards  of  fifty  years." 
And,  if  in  an  expansive  mood,  she  would  add, 
"I  myself  was  born  in  the  room  I  now  occupy." 
What  wonder  if,  with  such  claims  to  prece- 
dence, she  was  early  accorded  the  deanship? 

It  was  one  of  her  fellow  boarders,  the  late 
Professor  Calder,  who  had  conferred  upon  her 
this  titular  dignity,  and  in  nothing  was  her 
gratification  at  the  amiable  pleasantry  more 


The  Dean  of  the  Boarding-House.     269 

apparent  than  in  the  zeal  with  which,  both 
before  and  after  his  death,  she  was  ever 
ready  to  proclaim  the  profound  erudition  of 
the  scholarly  recluse.  From  youth  up  Ara- 
bella had  been  noted  for  a  tenacious  loyalty, 
and  her  friends  were  wont  to  point  out  that 
at  the  age  of  fifty  she  had  yet  to  change  either 
her  name  or  her  nature.  She  was  to-day 
the  same  excellent,  opinionated  personage  she 
had  given  evidence  of  being  while  yet  in  her 
cradle,  and  she  was  still  Arabella  Spencer. 

Let  it  not  be  inferred,  however,  that  she 
was  therefore  an  old  maid.  That  was  an 
obloquy  which  no  granddaughter  of  Old 
Lady  Pratt  had  had  the  hardihood  to  incur. 
One  or  two,  indeed,  had  postponed  the  fate- 
ful step  almost  to  the  danger  limit ;  but  before 
she  went  hence,  that  unswerving  champion 
of  the  domestic  hearth  had  the  felicity  of 
seeing  the  most  recalcitrant  of  her  children's 
daughters  gathered  into  the  blessed  fold  of 
matrimony. 

Arabella,  to  be  sure,  had  shown  no  signs 
of  recalcitrancy,  barring  a  preliminary  revolt 
against  the  necessity  which  society  imposes 
upon  a  woman  of  changing  her  name. 

"Say  what  you  please,  grandmother," 
she  had  declared,  with  the  easy  finality  of 


270  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

youth, — it  was  the  very  day  on  which  she  had 
signalized  her  entrance  upon  young-ladyhood 
by  the  donning  of  an  elaborate  thread-lace 
veil,  becomingly  festooned  across  the  rim  of 
her  poke-bonnet  as  she  now  tossed  it  back  in 
the  interest  of  free  speech.  "Say  what  you 
please,  there  is  something  galling  about  it. 
As  if  it  did  n't  matter  what  a  woman's  name 
was!" 

"Didn't  matter!"  quoth  old  Lady  Pratt, 
glancing  shrewdly  at  the  mutinous  young 
eyes,  black,  like  her  own,  but  as  yet  singularly 
unlit  of  wisdom.  "  I  should  say  it  did  matter. 
Jest  you  wait  and  see." 

"Then  you  did  n't  like  giving  up  your  own 
name!"  was  Arabella's  too  hasty  conclusion. 

"Like  it?  Of  course  I  liked  it!  And  I 
guess  Kingsbury  's  full  as  genteel  a  name  as 
Spencer,  too!  But  from  the  fust  hour  that 
your  grandfather — "  A  faint  flush  stained 
the  sound  old  cheek.  "  But  there!  Jest  you 
wait  and  see." 

As  often  as  Old  Lady  Pratt  found  herself 
caught  in  any  allusion  to  the  romance  of  her 
life,  which  the  passage  of  years  had  been 
impotent  to  dim,  she  would  take  refuge  in  the 
little  phrase,  "But  there!"  It  held  a  world 
of  meaning  on  her  lips. 


The  Dean  of  the  Boar  ding-House.     271 

Now  neither  did  Arabella  have  long  to 
wait,  nor  was  she  ever  constrained  to  "see, " 
for  by  an  incredible  freak  of  fortune  her  very 
first  suitor — and  consequently  her  last — 
bore  the  cherished  name  of  Spencer. 

"I  declare  for  V  Old  Lady  Pratt  ex- 
claimed, when  Harriet  stepped  over  to  ac- 
quaint her  with  her  daughter's  engagement, 
"ef  't  wa'n't  for  soundin'  irreverent,  I  should 
call  it  ill-judged  of  Providence  to  humor  the 
girl  so!" 

"Well,"  Harriet  rejoined,  with  uncom- 
promising frankness,  "I  guess  that  's  as  far  's 
the  humoring  can  be  said  to  extend.  Joseph 
seems  to  be  an  unexceptionable  young  man, 
but  I  can't  truthfully  claim  that  he  's  a 
commanding  personality."  It  may  be  ob- 
served in  passing  that  years  of  opulence  had 
greatly  enriched  Harriet's  vocabulary. 

"I  knew  it,"  the  old  lady  chuckled.  "It 
was  the  name  that  fetched  her!" 

"Either  that  or  the  statistics,"  Harriet 
assented  dryly,  and  with  an  ironic  recogni- 
tion of  her  prospective  son-in-law's  one 
distinguishing  trait. 

For  although  Joseph  Spencer,  a  mediocre 
lawyer,  and  already  at  thirty  middle-aged, 
was  guiltless  of  any  scientific  apprehension  of 


272  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

statistics,  he  had  the  sort  of  mind  that  revels 
in  figures.  In  fact,  it  may  be  questioned 
whether  it  would  ever  have  occurred  to  him 
to  offer  himself  to  Arabella,  had  she  not 
chanced,  in  an  unguarded  moment,  to  mention 
the  exact  number  of  gallons  that  go  to  make 
the  annual  water-supply  of  the  city  of  Lon- 
don,— an  item  which,  as  he  very  well  knew, 
she  had  gleaned  that  same  evening  from  the 
Dunbridge  Weekly  Chronicle.  But,  indeed, 
what  more  could  the  most  exacting  have 
demanded  ?  The  poor  girl  lacked  the  requisite 
data  for  computing  those  gallons  herself;  and 
Joseph,  recognizing  that  fact,  was  joyfully 
ready  to  accept  the  mere  enunciation  on  her 
lips  of  a  sum  mounting  into  eleven  figures  as 
a  revelation  of  the  unsuspected  scope  of  the 
female  intellect.  From  that  hour  he  knew 
that  he  had  found  his  affinity. 

And  what  if  the  determining  factor  in 
Arabella's  action  had  been  an  equally  flimsy 
one?  What  if  Old  Lady  Pratt  was  right, 
and  it  had  been  the  name  that ' '  fetched  her  "  ? 
Young  people  are  subject  to  strange  delusions 
in  this  most  critical  of  all  adventures,  and  the 
glamour  of  a  name  has  played  its  part  ere  now 
in  many  a  more  exalted  alliance  than  poor 
Arabella's.  One  thing  at  least  may  be  as- 


The  Dean  of  the  Boar  ding-House.     273 

serted:  that  having  once  made  her  choice, 
and  in  perfect  good  faith,  no  shadow  of  regret 
was  ever  known  to  tinge  her  words  or  actions. 
She  took  her  Joseph  as  she  found  him,  and 
it  is  but  fair  to  admit  that  she  found  him  quite 
innocuous. 

For,  aside  from  the  master-passion  of  his 
life,  to  which  his  wife  soon  became  aware  of 
playing  a  distinctly  secondary  r61e,  young 
Spencer  might  have  been  fairly  described  as  a 
negative  character.  And  when,  after  some 
ten  years  more  of  assiduous  figuring,  he 
achieved  the  final  and  not  unimpressive 
negation  of  a  premature  demise,  Arabella, 
whose  mourning  partook  of  the  tempered 
fervor  which  had  formed  the  high- water  mark 
of  their  marital  relations,  went  home  to  the 
fine  old  house  of  her  grandfather's  erection, 
where  she  soon  settled  down  into  a  very 
congenial  life  with  .her  excellent  mother. 
Matrimony  had  been  to  her  little  more  than  a 
period  of  stagnation,  only  fleetingly  stirred  by 
the  coming,  and,  sad  to  say,  the  going,  of  an 
only  child.  For  the  little  creature,  twice  a 
Spencer,  had  died  on  the  day  of  its  birth — 
too  early,  as  intrusive  sympathizers  were 
informed,  for  her  to  have  become  deeply 
attached  to  it.  Whether  this  cold-blooded 

IS 


274  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

attitude  was  genuine,  or  assumed  in  self-de- 
fence, none  could  tell.  Certain  it  is,  however, 
that  the  dead  level  of  her  marriage,  lacking  as 
it  did  even  the  animating  element  of  overt 
discord,  had  produced  in  her  something  akin 
to  atrophy  of  the  affections ;  so  that  her  strong 
but  limited  nature  had  come  to  centre  more 
and  more  upon  names  and  places,  to  the  ex- 
clusion of  any  vital  human  interest.  Even 
the  death  of  her  mother,  which,  occurring 
before  that  vigorous  dame  had  attained  her 
eightieth  year,  threw  them  all  off  their 
reckoning,  left  the  daughter  quite  mistress  of 
her  feelings;  and  it  was  not  until  the  decree 
went  forth  in  family  council  that  the  old 
house  must  go,  that  the  iron  entered  into 
Arabella's  soul. 

In  vain  did  they  point  out  to  her  the 
deterioration  of  the  immediate  neighborhood 
which  must  soon  render  the  place  unavailable 
as  a  residence  for  any  one  with  sufficient  means 
to  maintain  it — in  which  category  Arabella 
herself  was  unhappily  not  to  be  reckoned. 
She  only  knew  that  it  was  the  old  home,  the 
home  to  which  she  was  bound  by  every  fibre 
of  her  being;  and  she  fought,  tooth  and 
nail,  against  its  profanation.  But  alas,  she 
was  to  learn,  as  many  a  doughty  conserva- 


The  Dean  of  the  Boarding-House.     275 

tive  has  done,  that  those  primitive  weapons 
are  of  small  avail  in  a  single-handed  encounter 
with  Progress.  Before  her  eyes,  and  with 
her  own  enforced  connivance,  the  sacrifice 
was  accomplished,  and  the  property  delivered 
over  to  the  spoilers,  who  made  no  secret  of 
their  intention  of  cutting  up  the  superfluous 
land  into  house-lots.  I  think  the  most 
humiliating  act  of  Arabella's  life  was  the 
affixing  of  her  signature  to  that  iniquitous 
deed  of  sale. 

For  days  following  her  overwhelming  de- 
feat, she  shut  herself  up  in  the  great  lonely 
house, — where  the  very  servants  seemed  like 
ghosts  of  the  past, — wandering  restlessly 
from  room  to  room,  sliding  her  hand  along  the 
cool  mahogany  stair-railing,  turning  with  her 
foot,  though  it  was  midsummer,  the  circular 
brass  " register"  whose  high  polish  she  had 
always  gloried  in, — shedding  veritable  tears 
over  the  fragrant  shelves  of  the  linen-closet, 
so  soon  to  be  denuded  of  their  housewifely 
store.  As  day  by  day  she  nursed  her  bitter 
grievance,  it  came  to  look  as  if  she  might 
never  again  be  on  amicable  terms  with  her 
recreant  kindred. 

Happily  for  the  cause  of  good  feeling, 
however,  she  was  spared  the  crowning  in- 


276  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

dignity  of  actual  dislodgment ;  for,  even 
as  she  was  on  the  verge  of  ejection,  news 
reached  her  that  the  old  homestead  was  to 
be  turned  into  a  boarding-house.  The  crisis 
was  acute,  and  she  wasted  little  time  in  pros 
and  cons.  None  of  her  family,  to  be  sure, 
had  ever  lived  in  a  boarding-house;  but  the 
thought  of  their  impending  "  disgruntlement," 
far  from  giving  her  pause,  only  lent  a  pleasing 
zest  to  the  sacrifice  she  was  resolved  upon. 

"Yes,"  she  announced,  with  admirable 
nonchalance,  "I  haven't  got  to  move  out 
after  all." 

"Not  move  out?"  echoed  her  brother 
Richard,  who,  having  solicited  an  interview 
on  a  matter  of  business,  had  unwittingly 
exposed  himself  to  the  shock. 

"No;  I  'm  going  to  board  with  Mrs. 
Wadley.  I  Ve  engaged  mother's  chamber." 

The  blow  was  delivered  quietly,  but  with 
telling  effect,  and  Richard  did  not  attempt 
to  conceal  his  discomfiture. 

"You  mean  to  say  that  you  Ve  engaged  to 
live  in  a  boarding-house,  without  consulting 
any  of  the  family?"  he  was  so  ill-advised  as 
to  ask. 

"There  was  no  one  in  the  family  to  consult 
— of  whose  judgment  I  had  any  opinion,"  she 


The  Dean  of  the  Boar  ding-House.      277 

asserted,  yet  with  the  unruffled  calm  of  one 
conscious  of  having  the  situation  well  in 
hand. 

"It's  not  a  matter  of  judgment,"  he 
declared  testily.  "It's  a  matter  of  fact. 
In  the  first  place,  you  've  got  income  enough 
to  have  a  house  of  your  own.  Not  anything 
like  this,  of  course,  but— 

"I  am  aware  of  the  exact  figure  of  my 
income,  Richard." 

"Then  it 's  going  to  be  noisy  and  dis- 
agreeable here  for  a  long  time  to  come. 
There  '11  be  building  going  on,  and— 

"I  'd  rather  have  that  in  my  ears  than 
on  my  conscience,"  she  interposed,  with 
unmistakable  point;  and  Richard,  perceiving 
that  she  was  in  anything  but  a  conciliatory 
mood,  wisely  desisted  from  further  argument. 
He  had  a  hot  temper  of  his  own,  and  he  was 
not  sure  just  how  much  of  a  drubbing  he  could 
take  without  hitting  back.  Moreover,  he 
loved  his  sister  and,  if  the  truth  were  known, 
he  found  himself  secretly  applauding  her 
spirit. 

But  all  were  not  as  tolerant  as  he,  and  for 
a  short  space  the  family  was  up  in  arms. 
Her  eldest  brother,  James,  after  spending 
as  much  as  fifteen  consecutive  minutes  in  an 


278  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

attempt  to  shake  Arabella's  determination, 
declared  that  he  had  no  patience  with  her; 
only,  as  James  had  never  been  known  to 
have  patience  with  anybody,  that  did  n't  so 
much  matter.  Aunt  Edna,  the  soldier  uncle's 
widow,  who  had  accepted  too  many  benefits 
first  and  last  at  the  hands  of  her  rich  sister-in- 
law  to  feel  quite  pleasantly  toward  the  family, 
gave  it  as  her  opinion  that  you  never  could 
tell  where  one  of  Harriet's  children  would 
break  out ;  while  even  Uncle  Ben,  that  kindliest 
of  wags,  remarked  with  something  bordering 
on  asperity,  that  the  girl  might  as  well  be  a 
cat  and  done  with  it — to  stay  prowling  round 
a  house  after  the  folks  had  moved  out! 

Only  her  younger  sister,  Lucy, — who  had 
been  blissfully  in  love  with  her  architect 
husband  since  the  day  that  he  had  entered 
into  her  heart  by  way  of  the  Gothic  tree- 
vistas  of  Elm  Street, — only  Lucy  did  justice 
to  her  sentiment  about  the  house. 

"Grandpa  built  it,"  Lucy  would  explain, 
with  an  artless  sententiousness  all  her  own. 
"A  builder's  work,  you  know,  is  really  a  part 
of  himself;  and  Frank  and  I  think  it  lovely 
of  Arabella  to  feel  as  she  does  about  it." 

And  Arabella,  heeding  neither  cuffs  nor 
kisses,  stayed  on  in  the  ancestral  mansion, 


The  Dean  of  the  Boar  ding-House.     279 

undaunted  by  desolating  changes  within  and 
without.  The  good  Mrs.  Wadley  did  her 
misguided  best  to  vulgarize  the  stately 
interior,  while  the  new  owners  lost  no  time 
in  dividing  up  the  half-dozen  generous  acres 
into  small  house-lots,  to  be  promptly  dis- 
figured by  a  mushroom  growth  of  cheap  and 
tawdry  dwellings.  The  terraced  lawn  in 
front  was  thus  thrice  encumbered,  the  sightly 
gardens  at  the  rear  were  ruthlessly  invaded 
and  obliterated,  and  the  old  house  itself  stood 
crowded  to  suffocation  among  the  interlopers, 
despoiled  even  of  its  last  vestige  of  a  drive- 
way, and  accessible  only  by  a  footpath  leading 
from  the  side  street.  Within  one  short  year, 
as  calendar  years  are  reckoned,  during  which 
Arabella  had  suffered  untold  scourgings  of 
the  spirit,  the  great  desecration  was  accom- 
plished. 

It  was  now  seven  years  since  this  befell, 
and  even  as  the  vandals  had  been  powerless 
to  budge  the  old  house  from  its  proud  emi- 
nence upon  the  uppermost  terrace,  so  Ara- 
bella, too,  had  held  her  own,  and  from  being 
merely  the  self-appointed  guardian  of  ancient 
dignities,  had  come  to  be  recognized  and 
deferred  to  as  dean  of  the  boarding-house. 
Hence  it  was  that  when  she  pronounced  a 


280  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

boarding-house  to  be  an  unfit  place  for  a  child, 
no  voice  was  raised  to  dispute  her. 

If,  after  that,  conversation  seemed  inclined 
to  languish,  there  was  nothing  unusual  in  the 
circumstance  at  this  evening  hour,  the  only 
hour  of  Arabella's  day  when  it  was  her  habit 
to  ' '  mingle ' '  with  her  fellow  boarders.  There 
was  a  conclusiveness  in  the  dean's  dicta 
which  not  infrequently  operated  as  a  check 
on  social  intercourse. 

Half-a-dozen  ladies  were  gathered  in  what 
was  once  called  "the  long  parlor,"  now  sadly 
abbreviated  by  reason  of  a  partition  thrown 
across  the  middle,  directly  beyond  the  stately 
Corinthian  pillars,  which,  thus  robbed  of  their 
significance  in  the  architectural  scheme,  made 
a  not  very  impressive  appearance.  The  little 
girl  had  established  herself  on  the  floor  be- 
tween the  two  front  windows,  just  where  one 
of  the  long  pier-glasses  used  to  rest  on  its 
marble  slab,  her  straight  little  legs  sticking 
out  in  front  of  her  at  an  exact  right  angle 
with  the  small  upright  back;  and  Arabella 
seemed  to  remember  that  once  upon  a  time, 
in  fact  at  about  the  period  when  the  pier- 
glasses  were  installed,  she  too  had  possessed 
the  enviable  faculty  of  maintaining  that 
difficult  position.  She  glanced  furtively  at 


The  Dean  of  the  Boar  ding-House.     281 

the  child,  still  immersed  in  sumptuary  affairs ; 
and  presently,  when  general  conversation  had 
somewhat  revived,  she  drew  from  her  work- 
basket  a  roll  of  white  galloon  braid,  and 
snipped  off  a  half -yard  of  it. 

"Little  girl,"  she  called  abruptly,  "you  'd 
better  come  and  tie  this  round  your  doll  to 
keep  her  clothes  on." 

Arabella's  principles  would  not  permit  of 
her  addressing  any  human  being,  of  whatever 
degree  of  insignificance,  as  "  Dimple,"  nor 
yet  could  she  bring  herself  to  use  her  mother's 
name  of  Harriet,  which  the  child's  sponsors 
were  understood  to  have  bestowed  upon  her. 
Harriet,  indeed!  this  offspring  of  a  flighty, 
inefficient  mother,  turned  loose  upon  a 
boarding-house ! 

"She  must  be  taught  common  decency," 
Arabella  remarked  to  her  next  neighbor  at 
the  centre  table;  and  Miss  Tate,  one  of  the 
dean's  warmest  adherents,  earnestly  endorsed 
the  sentiment. 

Meanwhile,  the  nameless  one  picked  up 
her  small  person  from  the  floor  and  approached 
the  dispenser  of  toilet  requisites  with  un- 
disguised interest.  It  was  the  first  time  the 
tall  lady  with  the  shiny  breast-pin  had  ever 
spoken  to  her,  though  Dimple  had  often  felt 


282  Later  Pratt  Portraits* 

those  observant  eyes  upon  her.  As  the  child 
put  out  a  confiding  hand  for  the  proffered 
gift,  Arabella  hesitated  an  instant.  How 
could  that  futile  paw  be  expected  to  perform 
so  intricate  a  feat  as  the  tying  of  a  bow-knot? 

"Here,  I  '11  fix  it  for  you,"  she  said, 
brusquely;  and  yet  the  movement  was  not 
ungentle  with  which  she  took  the  wisp  of 
wood  and  cotton  from  the  little  hand  and 
deftly  executed  the  small  task. 

As  she  handed  back  the  object  of  her  solici- 
tude thus  reclaimed  to  decency,  the  child 
gave  vent  to  her  feelings  in  a  gleeful  hop  and 
bleat  as  of  a  gratified  lambkin,  which  was 
really  far  more  expressive  than  any  conven- 
tional acknowledgment  would  have  been. 
But  Miss  Tate,  intoxicated  by  Arabella's 
condescension  of  a  moment  ago,  needs  must 
become  didactic. 

"What  have  you  got  to  say  to  the  kind 
lady?"  she  put  in,  and  thereby  blundered 
badly.  For  Arabella  prided  herself  upon 
never  "looking  for  thanks." 

Nor  were  matters  at  all  improved  when 
Dimple,  poking  her  jointed  darling  under 
the  very  nose  of  the  lady  with  the  shiny  pin, 
lisped,  "Kith  Dolly!" 

' '  Nonsense,    child, ' '    Arabella    protested, 


Arabella 


"  Kith  Dolly  /" 


The  Dean  of  the  Boarding-House.     283 

really  abashed  by  the  suggestion,  and  pushing 
the  preposterous  manikin  away. 

But,  "Kith  Dolly!  Kith  Dolly!"  the  little 
thing  persisted,  while  Arabella  firmly  re- 
sumed work  on  the  flannel  petticoat.  Upon 
which,  unable  to  control  her  wounded  feel- 
ings, that  absurd  infant  set  up  a  most  heart- 
rending wail,  to  which  doleful  accompaniment 
two  incredibly  large  tears  came  welling  up  in 
the  round  blue  eyes,  and  spilling  over  on  the 
round  pink  cheeks. 

This  was  really  too  much,  and  the  dean 
of  the  boarding-house  was  on  the  point  of 
adopting  repressive  measures,  when  again 
Miss  Tate  blundered. 

"You  are  a  very  naughty  girl,  Harriet!" 
she  expostulated  severely. 

Arabella  took  instant  umbrage.  She 
scarce  knew  which  was  more  to  be  resented, 
the  use  of  that  honored  name  in  accents  of 
reproof,  or  the  meddling  of  an  inexperienced 
spinster  in  a  matter  so  plainly  outside  her 
province.  For  suddenly,  and  with  a  queer, 
exultant  thrill,  Arabella  remembered  that 
she  had  once  been  a  mother.  After  all, — poor 
Miss  Tate! — how  could  she  be  expected  to 
understand  a  child? 

"She  doesn't  mean  to  be  naughty,"  the 


284  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

dean  of  the  boarding-house  pleaded,  with  a 
pitying  tolerance  for  the  too  zealous  martinet ; 
and  there,  before  them  all,  she  took  the  dolly 
in  her  hand  and  unblushingly  kissed  it. 

Upon  which  the  child,  in  an  ecstasy  at 
having  got  her  own  way,  proceeded  to  push 
her  advantage  still  further,  and  lifting  her 
little  face,  "Kith  Dimple!"  she  commanded. 

Then  Arabella  bent  her  head,  intending  to 
administer  a  noncommittal  peck,  such  as  she 
kept  about  her  for  the  little  Pratts  and 
Spencers  that  abounded  in  the  family.  But 
as  her  lips  touched  the  soft  cheek  a  quick 
pang  seized  her,  and  there  awoke  in  her  heart 
something  that  had  slumbered  there  for  nigh 
upon  thirty  years, — something  that  she  had 
supposed  dead  and  buried  long  ago.  And 
again  a  strange  thought  crossed  her  mind, — 
that  if  her  own  baby  had  lived  it  might  have 
had  a  child  like  this.  Not  a  very  wonderful 
thought,  perhaps,  but  it  gripped,  and  Arabella 
was  not  used  to  that  sort  of  thing. 

Shaken  out  of  her  habitual  composure,  she 
hastily  gathered  up  her  work  and  prepared  to 
leave  the  room,  quite  ten  minutes  in  advance 
of  the  accustomed  hour. 

"Run  and  play,  little  girl,"  she  admon- 
ished, with  a  crisp  decision  curiously  at  van- 


The  Dean  of  the  Boar  ding-House.     285 

ance  with  the  disconcerting  thrill  that 
possessed  her ;  and  the  child,  content  with  the 
victory  she  had  so  lightly  scored,  trotted  back 
to  her  post  between  the  windows. 

When  Arabella,  bidding  the  ladies  good- 
night, had  made  a  dignified  exit,  there  was  an 
immediate  outbreak  of  comment. 

"Well,"  snapped  Mrs.  Edgecomb,  as  soon 
as  the  rustle  of  skirts  had  ceased  on  the  stairs, 
"I  should  like  to  know  who  's  spoiling  that 
child  now!" 

"I  confess  that  I  was  glad  to  see  Mrs. 
Spencer  unbend,"  Mrs.  Treadwell  admitted, 
in  her  comfortable  way.  "She  's  as  good  a 
woman  as  ever  lived,  but  I  must  say  she  's 
always  seemed  to  me  just  a  little  mite  stiff." 

"She's  never  stiff  with  me,"  Miss  Tate 
intimated,  with  a  fatuous  simper.  "But 
then,  I  suppose  I  'm  on  more  confidential 
terms  with  her  than  some." 

"Eh?  What 's  that?  Confidential  terms?" 
piped  up  old  Mrs.  Inkley,  in  her  rasping 
falsetto.  "There  wa'n't  never  anybody  on 
confidential  terms  with  Arabella  Spencer. 
I  Ve  known  that  girl  sence  before  she  was 
born,  'n'  she 's  close-mouthed  as  her  own 
bed-post!" 

"She's    open-handed    enough,    anyway," 


286  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

Miss  Tate  temporized,  discreetly  changing 
her  tack.  For  Arabella's  liberality  was 
matter  of  common  knowledge  which  even  a 
pre-natal  authority  could  not  well  gainsay. 

"I  do  wish  our  dear  dean  might  get  to 
taking  an  interest  in  that  child,"  kind  Mrs. 
Tread  well  purred.  "The  mother  seems  to 
be  well-meaning  enough,  but— 

"What  is  it  she  's  'round  after  so  much?" 
asked  Delia  Robin,  who  liked  to  know  things. 

"I  should  say  she  was  'round  after  Ed 
Lambert,  far  as  I  can  judge,"  Mrs.  Edgecomb 
opined.  "She's  forever  buggy-riding  with 
that  fellow,  or  going  to  Comic  Opera  with 
him,  the  way  she 's  done  to-night,  when  she  'd 
better  have  stayed  at  home,  putting  her  baby 
to  bed." 

"They  say  young  Lambert 's  going  on  the 
stage,"  Miss  Tate  ventured,  taking  heart  of 
grace  to  re-enter  the  conversation. 

"There  ain't  no  stages  nowadays,"  rasped 
old  Mrs.  Inkley,  who  never  seemed  to  hear 
anything  unless  there  was  a  chance  to  con- 
tradict, the  which  she  had  a  fatal  propensity 
for  discovering  in  Miss  Tate's  most  harmless 
statements. 

"She  means  the  operatic  stage,"  Mrs. 
Treadwell  interposed  soothingly.  "  He  's  got 


The  Dean  of  the  Boar  ding-House.     287 

a  real  good  voice,  you  know.  His  father 
sang  in  the  Orthodox  choir." 

"How  long  has  she  been  a  widow? "  queried 
Delia  Robin,  once  more  yielding  to  a  fitful 
thirst  for  information. 

"A  year  and  a  half.  And  it  leaves  her 
soul-alone  in  the  world;  for  her  folks  are  all 
dead,  and,  as  far  as  I  can  make  out,  he  never 
had  any  from  the  beginning." 

"What  did  he  die  of?"  Mrs.  Edgecomb 
demanded,  in  the  tone  of  a  Pinkerton  de- 
tective, who  will  brook  no  evasion. 

"Why,  he  was  in  the  sardine  business, 
and  she  says  he  was  lost  on  a  down-east 
freighter,  off  the  coast  of  New  Brunswick." 

"I  hope  he  was,"  was  Miss  Tate's  some- 
what startling  comment.  "That  is,  I  hope 
she  is  n't  mistaken,  or  rather, — I  was  only 
thinking, — supposing  she  was  to  marry  again, 
you  know,  like  Enoch  Arden's  widow, — only 
she  wasn't  a  widow,  either,  was  she!" 
and,  hopelessly  entangled  in  a  wordy  web 
of  her  own  contrivance,  Miss  Tate  fell 
abruptly  silent. 

"Well,  no!"  Mrs.  Treadwell  laughingly 
agreed.  "  I  should  say  she  was  rather  partic- 
ularly not  a  widow!"  And  the  conversation, 
having  thus  strayed  into  the  higher  realms  of 


288  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

literature,  became  so  much  less  animated  that 
the  more  studiously  inclined  found  themselves 
free  to  return  to  their  evening  papers. 

And  all  this  time  the  "little  girl"  was 
prattling  innocently  with  her  dolly,  paying 
no  heed  whatever  to  the  discussion  of  her 
parents,  which,  truth  to  tell,  was  couched  in 
terms  far  transcending  her  comprehension. 

Arabella,  meanwhile,  arrived  in  "mother's 
chamber,"  lighted  her  drop-light,  which 
glowed  softly  through  the  porcelain  trans- 
parency of  its  pretty,  six-sided  shade,  and, 
seating  herself  in  her  favorite  chair  by  the 
table,  breathed  a  sigh  of  satisfaction.  Here 
at  last  she  was  on  her  own  ground,  safe  from 
intruding  fancies.  She  glanced  about  the  fine 
old  room,  where  each  piece  of  furniture  stood 
in  its  accustomed  place  as  in  her  mother's 
day,  and  her  eye  was  caught  by  a  small  ma- 
hogany armchair  over  there  by  the  fireplace. 
A  capital  little  chair  it  was,  of  excellent 
design  and  workmanship,  and  boasting  a 
seat-covering  embroidered  in  cross-stitch. 

As  she  picked  up  her  sewing,  on  which  she 
had  been  somewhat  hindered  by  the  little 
incident  of  the  galloon  braid,  she  found  her- 
self thinking  how  she  used  to  enjoy  sitting  in 
that  little  chair,  until  it  grew  too  snug  a  fit. 


The  Dean  of  the  Boarding-House.     289 

The  seat-covering  represented  a  pair  of  picka- 
ninnies, one  of  them  playing  the  accordion, 
the  other  cocking  an  appreciative  ear  to 
listen.  It  had  been  some  time  before  she 
could  bring  herself  to  do  them  the  discourtesy 
of  sitting  down  on  them ;  but  later,  when  she 
found  that  they  never  seemed  to  mind,  she 
had  come  to  the  sapient  conclusion  that  little 
black  boys  in  cross-stitch  were  not  so  sensitive 
as  the  other  kind.  Funny  little  boys !  They 
had  n't  changed  a  bit  in  all  these  years. 

The  flannel  petticoat,  on  which  she  was 
making  excellent  progress,  was  not  so  en- 
grossing but  that  her  mind  was  free  to  roam. 

It  seemed  as  if  almost  any  child  might  like 
to  sit  in  a  chair  like  that,  she  thought;  why 
not  that  little  girl  down-stairs,  whose  doll 
— really,  the  creature  must  not  be  allowed  to 
go  naked  any  longer!  And,  at  this  point  in 
her  meditiations,  Arabella  laid  her  work 
down,  and,  rising,  made  a  bee-line  for  the 
piece-bag  which  hung  on  its  hook  in  her 
dressing-room.  Ah,  here  was  just  what  she 
wanted, — a  bit  of  flowered  silk,  reminiscent, 
but  cheerfully  so,  of  her  girlhood. 

Squandering  no  time  on  those  sentimental 
considerations  which  cluster  so  thickly  about 
a  piece-bag,  she  put  back  the  other  neat  rolls 
19 


290  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

of  silk,  and,  with  an  intensely  practical  air, 
returned  to  her  seat  beside  the  drop-light. 
Here  she  picked  up  her  scissors  and  began 
cutting  up  the  dainty  remnant  into  breadths 
and  biases,  by  the  side  of  which  the  baby's 
petticoat,  victim  again  of  unmerited  neglect, 
looked  for  all  the  world  like  a  Brobdingnagian 
garment.  Eagerly  she  twisted  and  turned 
the  morsel  of  silk,  nimbly  she  plied  her 
needle,  fashioning  a  marvellous  little  frock 
such  as  only  a  seven-inch  pygmy  could  make 
use  of.  And  such  were  the  exactions  of  her 
task  that  the  mantel-clock  had  quietly  but 
firmly  mentioned  the  hour  of  ten  before  ever 
she  found  leisure  to  straighten  her  back. 

As  she  subjected  her  completed  handiwork 
to  a  searching  scrutiny,  which,  however, 
brought  no  flaw  to  light,  "Mother  always 
said  I  was  a  capable  needlewoman,"  she  told 
herself.  But  that  was  disingenuous  of  Ara- 
bella, for  she  well  knew  that  her  mother's 
approbation  was  not  what  she  was  just  then 
aiming  to  deserve. 

And  when,  the  next  afternoon,  the  small 
chair  was  once  more  in  commission,  its  little 
occupant  rapturously  engaged  in  arraying 
Dolly  in  the  fairy  frock,  Arabella  sat  tran- 
quilly hemming  the  Brobdingnagian  petticoat 


The  Dean  of  the  Boarding-House.     291 

as  if  she  had  no  other  interest  in  life.  She 
believed  in  letting  children  alone,  and  noth- 
ing had  so  pleased  her  in  the  behavior  of  her 
little  beneficiary  as  the  matter-of-course  way 
in  which  she  had  received  the  fairy  offering. 
Indeed,  if  the  truth  were  known,  it  had 
seemed  to  the  child  quite  as  natural  to  accept 
gifts  at  the  hands  of  the  lady  with  the  shiny 
pin  who  had  kissed  Dolly,  as  at  the  hands  of 
the  mother  who  kissed  Dimple  herself  when 
she  happened  to  think  of  it,  which  was  getting 
to  be  less  and  less  often. 

For  Dimple's  mother,  as  may  have  been 
inferred,  was  allowing  herself  to  be  a  good 
deal  monopolized  by  that  same  Ed  Lambert, 
who,  though  not  a  stage- driver,  was  a  famous 
whip.  She  was  a  pleasure-loving  creature, 
and  she  never  wearied  of  driving,  in  what 
she  regarded  as  the  height  of  " style,"  behind 
the  smart  trotter  'that  Ed  handled  so  well. 
The  young  man's  tongue  was  a  valiant  one, 
too,  and  his  bold,  masterful  eyes  were  more 
eloquent  still,  and — well,  he  was  quite  de- 
liciously  in  love  with  Dimple's  mother.  He 
was  going  "on  the  road"  in  February,  with 
a  Gilbert  and  Sullivan  opera  company, — he 
had  secured  an  engagement  to  sing  a  minor 
part  in  Pinafore,  which  was  sure  to  lead  to 


Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

something  better, — and  he  was  ardently  in- 
sistent that  she  should  marry  him  and  come 
along  too.  Only,  there  was  Dimple,  quite 
another  order  of  pinafore, — an  operetta  of 
the  little  widow's  own,  in  fact, — and  one  that 
somehow  did  not  seem  to  fit  into  the  pro- 
gramme at  all.  And  so  Dimple's  mother 
felt  it  her  duty  to  seize  upon  every  oppor- 
tunity of  telling  Ed  how  she  adored  Dimple, 
and  of  how  she  could  never  take  any  step  to 
the  detriment  of  the  child;  and  this  obliged 
her  to  spend  so  many  hours  a  day  in  his 
society  that  Dimple  found  herself  reduced 
to  very  low  rations  in  the  matter  of  kisses. 

Meanwhile,  Dimple's  own  little  affair  was 
progressing  quite  as  trippingly  as  her  mother's, 
as  indeed  it  deserved  to  do.  When  she  was 
not  playing  out-of-doors  (such  a  poor  little 
contracted  "  out-of-doors "  as  the  old  place 
now  afforded!),  she  was  like  as  not  to  be 
found  in  Mis'  Pensey's  room, — her  own 
attractive  corruption  of  an  august  cognomen ! 
And  not  only  had  she  achieved  a  new  and 
engaging  title  for  Arabella,  but  she  herself 
was  no  longer  put  off  with  the  far  too  generic 
appellation  of  " little  girl." 

It  came  about  in  this  wise.  She  was  taking 
a  walk  with  Mis'  Pensey  one  day  in  late 


The  Dean  of  the  Boarding-House.     293 

October, — an  unusual  indulgence,  since  Ara- 
bella was  a  bit  shy  of  being  seen  abroad  in 
compromising  company, — and,  as  they  were 
traversing  the  quiet  thoroughfare  of  Green 
Street,  the  child  gave  one  of  her  bird-like 
chirps,  articulate  in  this  instance  as  "Pitty 
house!"  Whereupon  Arabella,  glancing  up, 
beheld  a  turkey-red  curtain  fluttering  at  an 
open  window,  and  became  aware  that  it  was 
Old  Lady  Pratt 's  house  that  had  been  thus 
singled  out  for  commendation.  She  stayed 
her  step  a  moment.  It  did  look  pretty,  the 
tidy  old  house  with  its  fresh  white  paint  and 
green  blinds,  its  neat  grass-plot  and  the  gar- 
den-beds bordering  the  walk.  It  had  been 
in  good  hands  since  it  went  out  of  the  family, 
faring  far  better  than  her  own  home  had  done, 
and  now  it  was  again  placarded,  "For  sale." 
Who  would  buy  it,  she  wondered, — this 
house,  also  of  her  grandfather's  construction, 
where  her  forbears  had  lived  and  died.  She 
was  glad  to  hear  it  called  a  pretty  house, 
though  she  knew  well  that  it  was  the  gay 
curtains  that  had  caught  the  baby  fancy. 

As  they  resumed  their  walk,  "  Pitty  house!" 
the  child  insisted,  with  the  cheerful  reitera- 
tion whereby  she  had  learned  to  compel 
assent;  and  Arabella,  looking  down  at  the 


294  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

little  thing,  trudging  along  so  contentedly 
at  her  side,  answered  gently,  "Yes,  it  is  a 
pretty  house,  Harriet  I '  *  The  thing  was  done 
so  casually  that  the  child  paid  no  special 
heed,  though  from  that  hour  she  answered  to 
the  name.  But  to  Arabella  it  marked  the 
lowering  of  an  irksome  barrier  which  she  had 
not  quite  known  how  to  cross. 

Yet  all  this  time, — and  time  was  travelling 
fast, — while  one  after  another  her  defences 
were  going  down  before  the  soft  assaults  of 
her  ingenuous  little  adversary,  Arabella  was 
far  from  admitting  to  herself  the  true  measure 
of  her  subjugation.  She  was  getting  rather 
fond  of  the  child,  no  doubt ;  and  she  certainly 
was  as  little  trouble  as  a  child  could  well  be. 
But  even  if  she  had  been  troublesome,  it 
was  no  more  than  right  that  somebody  should 
take  an  interest  in  her,  poor  little  thing! 
She  thought  it  might  be  well  to  teach  her  her 
letters — there  seemed  to  be  no  likelihood  of 
any  one  else  doing  so.  She  wondered  whether 
she  could  lay  her  hand  on  the  primer  out  of 
which  she  had  learned  her  own.  She  was 
to  take  tea  with  Frank  and  Lucy  that  evening, 
and  it  happened  that  Lucy  was  storing  a  box 
of  her  books  that  ought  to  contain  it.  She 
would  go  over  early  and  see  about  it. 


The  Dean  of  the  Boar  ding-House.     295 

It  had  got  to  be  midwinter  by  this  time, 
and  all  the  world  was  on  runners, — the  snow 
beaten  down  to  a  solid  crust  which  nothing 
short  of  a  February  thaw  would  loosen. 
Arabella,  walking  home  from  Lucy's  at 
about  nine  o'clock,  escorted  by  her  architect 
brother-in-law,  thought  how  exhilarating  the 
frosty  air  was,  and  the  gay  jingle  of  the  sleigh- 
bells,  and  the  moonlight  glittering  on  the 
snow;  and  it  never  once  occurred  to  her  to 
trace  her  good  spirits  to  the  well-thumbed 
primer  that  she  held  in  her  hand. 

They  stood  a  moment  at  the  front  door 
while  she  got  out  her  latch-key.  The  half- 
grown  moon  which  was  dipping  into  the  west 
shone  in  under  the  piazza-roof,  striking  full 
upon  the  lower  panel  of  the  door;  and  as 
Frank  took  the  key  from  her  hand,  with  his 
little  air  of  gallantry, — a  foreign  importation 
which  she  had  never  got  quite  used  to, — "I 
don't  wonder  you  stuck  to  the  old  house,  Ara- 
bella," he  remarked.  "That's  the  finest 
front-door  in  Dunbridge." 

Such  a  tribute  would  ordinarily  have  been 
deeply  gratifying  to  her,  but  she  was  thinking 
of  something  else  just  then. 

"Yes,"  she  assented,  rather  abstractedly, 
while  she  pulled  off  her  gloves,  and  noticed 


296  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

how  smooth  the  cover  of  the  primer  was 
worn.  "It 's  a  very  good  door,  but  it  wants 
painting."  And  with  that  she  bade  him 
good-night  and  passed  into  the  house. 

Almost  on  the  threshold  the  news  met 
her :  there  had  been  an  accident  on  the  Mill- 
dam — a  runaway  sleigh  coming  up  behind. 
She  had  been  in  young  Lambert's  cutter. 
There  was  no  time  to  turn  out.  The  pole 
had  struck  her  in  the  back. 

Was  she  much  hurt? 

Oh,  worse  than  that.  It  was  all  over  an 
hour  ago.  Ed  Lambert  was  beside  himself, 
poor  fellow;  but  he  was  not  in  any  way 
to  blame.  They  had  brought  her  in  at 
about  six  o'clock.  She  had  never  recovered 
consciousness. 

And  the  child?    Where  was  the  child? 

"We  Ve  moved  her  little  bed  into  your 
dressing-room,"  Mrs. Wadley explained.  "  We 
thought  she  'd  sleep  quieter  there  than  if 
I  'd  took  her  in  along  o'  me,  as  I  'd  ha*  been 
glad  to.  I  hope  she  won't  make  you  too 
much  trouble.  She  must  ha'  been  asleep 
when  I  come  away  a  few  minutes  ago.  She 
did  n't  say  nothing." 

But  Arabella  had  passed  swiftly  up  the 
stairs,  and  had  opened  her  door,  very,  very 


The  Dean  of  the  Boar  ding-House.     297 

softly, — only  that  her  heart  was  beating  so 
loud  that  she  trembled  lest  it  should  wake  the 
child. 

She  had  closed  the  door  behind  her,  and 
was  cautiously  making  her  way  across  the 
room,  when  a  wee,  remote  voice  from  over 
by  the  chimney-corner  arrested  her.  Turn- 
ing sharply,  she  beheld  a  strange  and  seizing 
apparition.  There,  in  her  accustomed  place 
in  the  little  armchair,  just  in  the  path  of  the 
moonlight,  sat  a  small  white  wraith,  shivering 
a  bit — for  the  thin  cotton  shift  was  never 
meant  for  such  service — waiting  for  Mis' 
Pensey. 

"Mumma  's  deaded,"  the  wee  voice  whim- 
pered. "  Mumma  's  deaded." 

In  an  instant  Arabella  had  her  in  her  arms, 
and  was  folding  her  in  the  long,  fur-lined 
cloak  she  herself  wore. 

"You  precious  baby!"  she  murmured 
brokenly,  as  she  bore  the  pitiful  little  mourner 
across  the  room  and,  seating  herself  in  her 
own  mother's  high-backed  invalid-chair, 
essayed  to  comfort  her.  "You  precious 
baby!" 

But,  "Mumma  's  deaded,"  the  little  thing 
grieved.  "Poor  Mumma!" 

"Yes,  darling,  yes.     But  it  doesn't  hurt 


298  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

to  be  deaded.  It  means  just  going  fast  asleep 
like  little  girls  do,  in  their  soft,  warm  beds." 
And  she  wrapped  her  ever  closer,  tucking  the 
cold  little  toes  deep  into  the  good  warm  fur. 

Was  it  some  dim,  fleeting  hint  of  the  Great 
Mystery  that  had  penetrated  to  the  baby 
intelligence?  Or  why  then  did  the  soft  fur 
fail  to  console? 

"Dimple  feel  bad,"  the  wee  voice  sobbed. 
"Dimple  feel  bad!" 

"There,  there,  Dimple!"  It  was  the  first 
time  that  name  had  ever  passed  those 
fastidious  lips;  but  so  much  was  due  the 
"deaded"  mother  in  that  hour.  "Don't 
cry!  She  must  n't  cry!  Mis'  Pensey  '11  take 
care  of  her  to-night." 

And  crooning  meaningless  words  of  tender 
baby-talk,  she  held  the  child  close  and  warm 
until  it  slept.  Then,  as  the  clinging  form 
relaxed,  and  the  catching  sobs  were  hushed, 
she  fell  to  pondering  the  strange  wind  of  des- 
tiny that  had  driven  the  little  waif  to  her 
sheltering  arms.  And  she  no  more  ques- 
tioned its  meaning  than  she  would  have 
questioned  had  it  been  her  own  baby,  or  her 
baby's  baby,  nestling  there  in  utter  helpless- 
ness, like  a  spent  dove — spent  and  affrighted 
in  the  rude  bufferings  of  its  little  gust  of  grief. 


The  Dean  of  the  Boar  ding-House.     299 

And  when  the  child,  sleeping  fast,  was 
safely  tucked  away  in  its  white  bed,  Arabella 
drew  up  a  chair  and  placed  herself  on  guard 
beside  her  precious  charge.  Hour  by  hour 
she  sat,  erect  and  motionless,  prolonging  her 
vigil  deep  into  the  night.  Now  and  again 
her  thoughts  would  turn  to  the  young  mother, 
from  whom  she  had  always  held  herself 
sternly  aloof,  coldly  disapproving ;  and  with  a 
sorrowful  compunction  she  would  recall  cer- 
tain appealing  traits,  scarcely  noted  at  the 
time.  A  quick,  upward  glance  of  the  eyes, 
a  ceaseless,  ineffectual  play  of  the  fingers. 
There  had  been  an  odd  trick  of  ending  each 
phrase  with  a  rising  inflection,  as  if  craving 
assent  to  a  tentative  statement, — an  air  of 
indecision,  as  of  a  rudderless  cockle-shell 
adrift  on  the  waters  of  volition.  Arabella, 
who  held  fast  to  the  doctrine  of  non-inter- 
ference, did  not  even  now  believe  that  it  had 
been  in  her  power  to  steady  that  frail  bark 
on  its  wavering  course,  but  she  found  herself 
remorsefully  wishing  that  she  had  been  just  a 
trifle  friendly  with  the  foolish  young  thing. 
And  there,  in  the  midnight  quiet,  she  entered 
into  a  solemn  compact  with  herself  never  to 
let  the  little  one  forget  her  mother ;  to  cherish 
every  gossamer  thread  of  memory  in  the  baby 


300  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

consciousness  till,  striking  root  in  that  sweet 
soil,  it  should  flower  into  a  fair  and  sacred 
image. 

Sitting  thus,  drawn  in  upon  herself,  Ara- 
bella had  not  noticed  how  cold  the  room  was 
growing,  till  suddenly  a  sharp  chill  struck  her, 
and  she  rose  to  fetch  the  cloak  that  she  had 
laid  aside.  The  movement  changed  the  di- 
rection of  her  thoughts,  restored  her  to  her 
normal  mood  of  practical  efficiency.  As  she 
returned  to  her  post,  and,  stooping,  drew  the 
coverlid  more  closely  about  the  softly  breath- 
ing form,  her  mind  reverted  with  a  thrill  of 
pleasure  to  the  little  house  in  Green  Street. 
What  a  pretty  home  it  would  make  for  the 
child — the  old  house,  with  its  funny  nooks 
and  crannies,  its  queer  stair-landings,  and  the 
gay  turkey -red  curtains  which  it  should  be 
her  very  first  concern  to  provide.  What  a 
pretty  grass-plot  for  a  child  to  play  about  in ; 
and  the  garden-beds! — there  should  be  a 
special  corner  for  her  to  dig  in,  and  they 
would  have  plenty  of  the  double  daisies,  pink 
ones  and  white,  that  were  always  in  such  a 
hurry  to  blossom. 

And  the  old  home?  The  home  to  which 
she  had  clung  with  such  fierce  pertinacity 
all  these  years?  As  the  dawn  quickened  in 


The  Dean  of  the  Boar  ding-House.     301 

the  little  room,  Arabella  looked  through  the 
doorway  into  the  great  chamber  beyond, 
thoughtfully  considering  each  familiar  feature 
of  the  dignified  interior.  What  was  it,  after 
all,  but  a  contrivance  of  wood  and  plaster 
that  had  served  its  turn,  and  would  serve  its 
turn  again,  for  other  occupants?  For  herself, 
the  eloquence  of  material  association  had 
grown  strangely  dumb;  the  dead  past,  in  so 
far  as  it  was  dead,  had  lost  its  magic.  And 
as  she  leaned  above  the  child,  listening  to 
its  quiet  breathing,  as  she  gently  touched 
the  little  cheek,  soft  and  humid  with  the  sweet 
warmth  of  sleep,  she  knew  that  it  was  not 
for  the  sake  of  her  own  baby,  nor  of  the  baby 
that  might  have  been,  that  she  was  to  gather 
this  little  creature  to  her  heart  of  hearts,  but 
for  love  of  the  child  itself. 

And  a  few  weeks  later,  when  all  legal 
formalities  had  been  consummated, — when 
the  house  in  Green  Street  was  hers,  and  the 
child  was  hers,  beyond  perad venture, — then, 
and  not  till  then,  did  she  apprise  her  aston- 
ished family  of  her  new  departure,  meeting 
remonstrances  and  congratulations  alike  with 
the  initial  argument,  which  to  her  thinking 
covered  all  possible  ground  for  criticism:  "A 
boarding-house  is  no  place  for  a  child." 


302  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

And  when  the  flurry  of  comment  was 
safely  weathered,  there  came  a  quiet  evening, 
in  the  calm  of  which  she  could  contemplate 
with  just  the  right  degree  of  wistful  regret  the 
dear  old  chamber  so  soon  to  be  abandoned 
to  strangers. 

The  child  was  playing  about  the  room,  mak- 
ing the  most  of  the  few  minutes  remaining 
before  the  inexorable  bed-hour, — indulging 
Dolly,  too,  in  one  last  gambol.  Suddenly 
she  glanced  over  at  Arabella,  whose  thought- 
fulness  may  well  have  taken  on  a  semblance 
of  melancholy.  Laying  Dolly  down  in  the 
little  chair,  the  child  stood  a  moment,  gravely 
studying  this  new  aspect  of  her  beloved  friend. 
Then,  very  quietly,  she  drew  near,  and,  with 
a  quaint  movement  of  sympathy,  laid  her 
little  hand  on  Mis'  Pensey's  knee. 

Touched  by  the  gravity  of  the  little 
woman,  Arabella  lifted  her  to  her  lap,  and 
for  the  first  time,  and  with  the  solemnity 
of  a  baptismal  rite,  accosted  her  as:  "Little 
Harriet  Spencer." 

Whereupon  that  incalculable  infant,  airily 
brushing  aside  the  momentous  ceremony, 
looked  straight  up  into  Mis'  Pensey's  face, 
and,  with  adorable  perversity,  lisped:  "Kith 
Dimple!" 


The  Dean  of  the  Boar  ding-House.     303 

And  Arabella,  baffled  and  disarmed  by 
the  sheer  audacity  of  the  little  sprite, — be- 
guiled too  by  a  love  surpassing  the  love  of 
names  and  places, — bent  that  obdurate  neck 
of  hers,  and  meekly  did  the  bidding  of  the 
child. 


IX. 
THE   DANDER  OF  SUSAN. 

SUSAN  LEGGETT  was  sound  as  a  nut 
at  sixty.  Not  that  sixty  is  any  age 
at  all,  so  far  as  that  goes.  Susan's 
grandmother,  Old  Lady  Pratt,  of  delectable 
memory,  would  have  called  it  the  edge  of 
the  evening.  But  it  was  something,  even 
at  sixty,  never  to  have  an  ache  or  a  pain, 
and  to  be  able  to  read  the  Dunbridge 
Weekly  Chronicle  without  glasses.  To  be 
sure,  one  knew  pretty  well  beforehand  what 
was  in  the  Chronicle,  so  that  was  no  great 
feat ;  especially  as  they  had  n't  begun  print- 
ing with  mouse-colored  ink  at  that  period. 

Susan's  detractors  said  that  the  reason 
she  kept  so  young  was  that  she  was  always 
having  the  entertainment  of  making  other 
people  lose  their  tempers  without  ever  losing 
her  own.  But  her  partisans,  who  were 
greatly  in  the  majority,  averred  that  she 
never  said  sharp  things  behind  a  person's 
304 


The  Dander  of  Susan.  305 

back,  as  indeed,  where  would  have  been  the 
fun?  For  Susan  was  essentially  dramatic. 
She  loved  setting  character  in  play;  it  was 
like  throwing  a  stick  to  a  terrier. 

Her  husband,  the  Professor  of  Christian 
Ethics,  had  resigned  his  chair  seven  or 
eight  years  ago,  because  he  imagined  him- 
self an  invalid.  Susan,  having  come  into 
her  share  of  the  Spencer'  property  at  about 
that  time,  and  being  anxious  to  get  back 
among  her  own  folks  in  Dunbridge,  had 
readily  fallen  in  with  this  notion,  though 
once  the  move  was  made,  she  stoutly  denied 
that  there  was  anything  whatever  the  matter 
with  him;  which  might  have  been  discon- 
certing to  the  professor,  only  that  he  was 
used  to  Susan.  He  admired  his  wife  im- 
mensely, and  thought  that  she  had  a  re- 
markable mind. 

Of  all  the  advantages  attaching  to  her 
change  of  residence,  none  was  more  highly 
prized  than  the  frequent  opportunity  of 
treating  her  brother  James  to  the  unvar- 
nished truth,  and  then  using  her  fine  mind  in 
an  effort  to  discover  what  could  have  dis- 
turbed him.  Susan  was  by  no  means  devoid 
of  tact;  but,  like  her  "real  thread"  lace,  she 
did  not  wear  it  "common." 


306  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

She  was  calling  at  her  brother's  one  day, 
when  Nannie,  her  sister-in-law,  pleading  a 
headache,  excused  herself  and  left  the  room. 
James  and  Susan  were  invigorating  person- 
alities, but  taken  together  they  sometimes 
formed  rather  too  powerful  an  astringent 
for  a  sensitive  organism  like  Nannie's.  Her 
defection  was  viewed  with  pitying  tolerance 
by  Susan,  who  did  not  however  feel  called 
upon  to  exercise  a  like  indulgence  toward 
her  eminently  robust  brother. 

"You  know,  James,"  she  remarked,  with 
unflinching  sincerity,  "it 's  all  your  fault, 
as  I  've  told  you  time  and  again,  Nannie's 
being  such  an  invalid.  First  you  don't  let 
her  lift  a  ringer  for  fear  she  '11  tire  herself, 
which  is  enough  to  make  a  gibbering  idiot  of 
any  woman;  and  then  you  keep  her  nerves 
on  edge  by  blowing  out  at  her  every  five 
minutes  about  nothing." 

"Blowing  out  at  her?"  was  the  indignant 
protest.  "I  never  blow  out  at  her!  Never 
blow  out  at  anybody!" 

1 '  There,  there,  James ;  don't  get  all  wrought 
up,  just  as  I  'm  leaving  you."  And,  as  she 
rose  to  go,  "How  's  Benny  doing  now?" 

"How's  Ranny  doing  now?"  James  re- 
torted viciously.  For  Ranny  was  Susan's 


The  Dander  of  Susan.  307 

only  child,  and  there  were  rumors  about 
Ranny. 

These  had  not  reached  Susan,  however; 
so  she  was  able  to  reply  with  telling  em- 
phasis, "Oh,  Ranny  has  never  given  us  a 
moment's  anxiety,"  and  to  leave  the  room 
with  her  head  in  the  air.  Susan  was  a  short 
woman,  not  to  say  stout,  but  at  mention  of 
Ranny's  name  she  had  the  faculty  of  hold- 
ing her  head  so  high  that  one  involuntarily 
looked  for  stilts. 

James  meanwhile  kept  his  seat,  a  smoul- 
dering eye  upon  the  departing  chignon,  which 
was  quite  as  provocative  in  its  way  as  the 
ringlets  of  yore.  He  and  Susan  had  been 
near  enough  of  an  age  for  fraternal  amenities ; 
and  as  often  as  not,  when  she  referred  to  the 
golden  days  of  childhood,  as  she  occasionally 
did,  being  of  a  sentimental  turn,  this  was 
the  picture  that  arose  in  his  memory :  a  small 
boy  in  a  sputtering  rage,  and  a  startled 
little  girl,  a  size  or  two  smaller,  with  a  de- 
servedly rumpled  head-piece. 

"How  's  Ranny  doing  now!"  she  repeated, 
as  she  turned  her  steps  homeward.  "I  de- 
clare, there  's  no  lengths  James  won't  go 
when  he  's  out  of  temper.  How  's  Ranny 
doing,  indeed!"  While  as  for  Benny,— 


308  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

well,  she  certainly  hoped  he  would  not  com- 
mit any  more  excesses,  though  if  he  did,  she 
was  too  good  an  aunt  not  to  wish  to  know  all 
about  it. 

But  what  did  James  mean  about  Ranny? 
That  was  really  what  was  gnawing  at  her 
consciousness  all  the  time  that  she  was 
simulating  concern  for  Benny.  What  did 
James  mean  by  that  peculiar  echo  of  her 
own  significant  inquiry? 

The  cousins  were  not  far  apart  in  years, 
but  they  had  never  had  much  in  common. 
How  should  Ranny  have  much  in  common 
with  a  boy  who  was  known  to  be  dissipated? 
—a  word  which  Susan  spelled  in  italics,  but 
pronounced  sotto  voce.  Her  Ranny,  her  only 
child,  upon  whom  every  care  had  been 
lavished  that  Christian  Ethics  could  devise 
or  parental  devotion  bestow.  She  did  not 
believe  he  had  ever  had  a  glass  too  much  in 
his  life;  and  as  for  cards,  he  hated  the  sight 
of  them, — would  n't  even  take  a  hand  at 
euchre  in  the  family  circle.  While  Benny, 
poor  boy,  the  youngest  of  nine, — of  course 
his  mother  had  had  neither  time  nor  strength 
to  bring  him  up  carefully.  Really,  a  large 
family  was  a  great  mistake. 

There  had  been  a  time  when,  if  Susan  had 


The  Dander  of  Susan.  309 

not  been  at  bottom  a  thoroughly  amiable 
woman,  she  would  have  hated  her  sister-in- 
law,  whose  babies  used  to  come  along  so 
regularly  that  they  might  have  been  made  a 
feature  of  the  Old  Farmer's  Almanac;  while 
she,  Susan,  had  waited  nearly  fifteen  years 
for  Ranny.  When  the  boy  did  arrive  he  was 
but  a  puling  infant, — and  our  forbears  knew 
what  that  queer  little  word  meant,  if  we 
don't.  It  was  thought  in  the  family  that 
the  name,  Randidge  Leggett,  Junior,  which 
was  instantly  clapped  upon  him,  might  have 
proved  something  of  a  facer  for  so  young  a 
child.  But  that  was  soon  mended.  For 
when,  at  a  tender  age,  he  was  brought  to 
Dunbridge  and  solemnly  introduced  to  all 
the  magi  and  magesses  of  the  clan,  Old  Lady 
Pratt,  without  a  moment's  hesitation,  ad- 
dressed him  as  "Ranny."  Upon  which  he 
was  said  to  have  ceased  puling  and  chirked 
right  up. 

To-day,  when  Susan  arrived  at  home,  she 
found  the  professor  mousing  among  his 
papers  in  an  aimless  way  that  was  growing 
upon  him,  now  that  he  was  out  of  a  job. 
He  glanced  up  at  his  wife  as  she  entered,  and 
willingly  relaxed  his  efforts.  It  always  did 
him  good  to  see  Susan  come  in.  She  was  so 


3io  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

brisk  and  hearty  and  wholesome.  When 
she  fretted  because  she  was  not  tall  and 
stately,  like  her  sister  Arabella  (which  she 
frequently  did,  merely  for  the  pleasure  of 
drawing  him  out),  he  would  assure  her  that 
long-necked  women  were  formed  for  poets 
to  write  verses  about, — though  the  careless 
fellows  sometimes  neglected  to  do  so, — while 
the  roley-poley  kind  were  made  to  be  loved. 
Was  it  any  wonder  that  Susan  accounted 
her  husband  a  profound  thinker? 

"Well,  my  dear,"  he  inquired,  "been 
cheering  up  your  neighbors?" 

She  came  over  and  dropped  a  kiss  on  the 
top  of  his  head  before  replying.  It  had  been 
her  habit  from  time  immemorial.  Perhaps 
that  was  why  she  was  the  only  person  who 
seemed  not  to  have  observed  that  he  was 
beginning  to  grow  bald.  As  the  professor 
would  have  put  it,  "The  attrition  of  a  fre- 
quently repeated  process  tends  to  blunt  the 
perceptions."  He  used  such  erudite  phrases 
in  conversation  with  his  wife,  for,  whether 
she  understood  them  or  not,  she  might  always 
be  depended  upon  to  think  that  she  did. 

As  she  performed  the  customary  rite,  he 
got  hold  of  her  gloved  hand  and  called  her 
"my  love."  This  he  invariably  did  when 


The  Dander  of  Susan.  311 

he  pressed  her  hand.  Nor  was  he  conscious 
in  so  doing  of  any  attrition  of  the  faculties. 

"I  've  been  to  see  Nannie,"  she  announced, 
sitting  down  on  the  other  side  of  the  big 
study  desk,  and  drawing  off  her  gloves. 
"James  was  in  a  shocking  temper.  What 
do  you  suppose  he  asked  me?" 

"I  'm  sure  I  can't  imagine." 

"He  asked  me  how  Ranny  was  doing! 
Now,  professor,  what  do  you  suppose  he 
was  driving  at?" 

"Perhaps  he  had  heard  of  Ranny 's  pro- 
motion." 

"  Ranny 's  promotion?  What  do  you 
mean?" 

"Why,  Ranny  has  just  been  in  to  tell  us. 
He  says  they  Ve  moved  him  up  a  notch, 
and," — he  eyed  her  apprehensively, — "he 
asked  me  to  tell  you,  so  I  have  to,  my  dear, 
—he  may  have  to  go  west." 

"Never!"  cried  Susan,  springing  to  her 
feet.  "Never!  He  shall  throw  the  whole 
thing  over  before  he  goes  west." 

"I  was  afraid  you  might  feel  that  way. 
Of  course  we  should  miss  Ranny." 

"Miss  him?  Why,  I  wouldn't  have  him 
go  west  to  be  President  of  the  United 
States!" 


312  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

"He  would  n't  have  to,"  the  professor 
interpolated. 

"Go  west?    Go  west?    Where  is  the  boy?" 

"He  said  he  shouldn't  be  in  again  until 
after  we  had  gone  to  bed." 

"He'll  be  in  before  /  Ve  gone  to  bed. 
You  may  rest  assured  of  that!  Why,  Ran- 
didge—  '  and  she  stopped,  with  a  little 
gasp, — "do  you  suppose  he  was  afraid  to 
talk  to  me  about  it?" 

"Well,  my  dear,  you  are  pretty  decided  in 
your  views,  and — Ranny  appears  to  be  pretty 
decided  himself  in  this  instance.  In  fact,  it 
struck  me," — and  the  prof essor  began  blink- 
ing through  his  glasses  in  a  way  he  had  when 
his  brain  was  under  its  own  steam,  rather 
than  towing  in  the  wake  of  a  brother  savant, 
— "it  struck  me  that  he  was  rather  particu- 
larly pleased  with  this  opening, — for  every 


reason." 


But  Susan,  in  hot  pursuit  of  her  own 
thought,  missed  the  implication. 

"There  's  no  need  of  his  staying  with  the 
Stickman  Company  at  all,  if  they  put  such 
conditions  on  his  promotion."  She  had  sat 
down  again,  and  it  was  evident  to  the  pro- 
fessor that  she  was  about  to  use  her  remark- 
able mind.  "Any  one  of  his  uncles  could 


The  Dander  of  Susan.  313 

give  him  a  new  start;  James  might  cer- 
tainly think  of  something, — though  I  don't 
know  that  I  could  ever  bring  myself  to  ask 
a  favor  of  him,  after  the  way  he  spoke  of 
Ranny  just  now." 

"But,  my  dear,"  the  professor  interposed, 
with  pained  insistence,  "I  was  about  to  say 
that  what  the  boy  seems  to  want  is  to — " 
he  hesitated,  but  there  was  no  help  for  it, — 
"to  get  away." 

"Randidge!" 

As  Susan  spoke  the  word  that  was  the 
Alpha  and  Omega  of  all  she  loved,  she  sank 
back  in  her  chair,  incapable  of  further 
speech, — and  the  professor  knew  what  that 
meant.  Ranny,  her  Omega,  wanted  to  get 
away.  To  get  away  from  home,  from  his 
father,  from  his  mother, — to  get  away! 
Their  only  child,  that  they  had  waited  for  so 
long!  Their  one  chicken!  No,  it  was  too 
much!  And  Susan,  the  brisk,  the  cheerful, 
the  hearty,  broke  completely  down. 

Then  the  professor  got  on  his  feet  and 
came  over  to  her  and,  perhaps  with  a  vague 
reminiscence  of  past  favors,  essayed  to  kiss 
the  top  of  her  head.  But  his  glasses  were 
dangling  on  the  string,  and  he  found  him- 
self so  suddenly  confronted  with  a  bunch  of 


314  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

apocryphal  roses,  that  he  was  obliged  to 
content  himself  with  patting  her  shoulder 
and  saying,  "There,  there!"  which  did  just 
as  well. 

Then  Susan  looked  up  through  her  tears. 

"  You  won't  desert  me,"  she  implored, 
clutching  blindly  at  the  sheet-anchor  that 
had  never  failed  her  yet. 

"Desert  you?"  he  protested.  "Desert 
you!" 

And,  as  was  ever  the  case  in  moments  of 
conjugal  fervor,  his  brain  was  fired  with  the 
familiar  fiction  that  he  had  never  loved 
another,  and  he  found  himself  impelled  as  by 
automatic  action  to  murmur  something  to 
that  effect.  What  matter  if  there  lived  one 
or  two  elderly  ladies  who  could  have  told  a 
different  tale?  What  mattered  they,  since 
they  were  clean  forgotten!  And  so  he  com- 
forted Susan,  and  cheered  himself,  with  that 
immediate  and  unstinting  devotion  which 
is  so  much  better  than  historic  accuracy. 

But  when  bedtime  came  and  no  Ranny, 
she  would  not  let  him  share  her  vigil,  but 
sent  him  off,  in  the  well-founded  assurance 
that,  being  an  avowedly  light  sleeper,  he  was 
safe  not  to  be  disturbed  by  any  echoes  of  the 
battle-royal  for  which  she  was  preparing. 


The  Dander  of  Susan.  315 

And  when  the  house  was  quiet,  Susan 
sat  down  on  the  top  stair  and  waited.  She 
could  not  have  told  why  she  chose  just  that 
conspicuous  and  uncomfortable  situation, 
unless  with  some  far-reaching  strategical 
design.  But  there  she  sat,  full-panoplied 
for  the  fray.  And  yet,  while  she  knew  that 
there  was  a  struggle  before  her,  she  felt  in  no 
combative  mood.  Rather  was  she  singularly 
open  to  gentle  influences.  That  was  be- 
cause she  was  thinking  of  her  boy,  which 
always  made  her  heart  soft.  And  indeed,  for 
all  her  martial  aspect,  never  was  there  a 
heart  more  prompt  to  soften  than  Susan's 
own. 

She  had  turned  down  the  gas  in  the 
upper  passage-way,  leaving  the  entry  below 
brightly  lighted  as  usual.  The  house  was 
still  warm,  in  spite  of  a  bleak  November 
wind  outside,  for  the  professor  had  but  just 
banked  down  the  furnace.  Pleasant  odors 
of  geranium  and  heliotrope  came  floating  up 
from  the  wire  stand  in  the  dining-room, 
while  the  ticking  of  a  placid  old  clock,  taking 
quiet  note  of  the  passing  seconds,  swelled  to 
the  slow  stroke  of  eleven.  The  sense  of 
home  was  very  strong.  Surely  Ranny  could 
never  hold  out  against  it.  He  would  only 


31 6  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

have  to  look  and  listen — and  smell — to  feel 
that  here  was  where  he  belonged. 

Good  boy!  It  was  as  Susan  had  assured 
her  brother;  he  had  never  given  them  a 
moment's  anxiety.  She  had  often  said  that 
if  she  had  had  a  dozen  children  she  could 
not  have  loved  the  lot  of  them  as  she  loved 
Ranny.  He  was  so  exactly  what  she  would 
have  wished  him  to  be, — though  there  was 
no  denying  that  she  had  been  compelled  to 
revise  her  specifications  from  time  to  time. 
She  had  fancied,  for  instance,  that  she 
wanted  him  to  grow  up  tall,  and  of  imposing 
carriage;  but  when  he  turned  out  short  and 
stocky  she  saw  that  it  gave  him  a  singularly 
manly,  trustworthy  air.  She  had  imagined 
that  he  would  inherit  his  father's  scholarly 
tastes;  but  when  he  begged  off  from  college 
and  chose  a  business  career,  Susan  was  the 
first  to  declare  that  that  was  the  thing  for  a 
man  in  a  big  growing  country  like  this.  And 
even  when  he  developed  a  marked  obstinacy 
of  disposition, — Susan  called  it  strength  of 
will, — she  perceived  how  much  it  was  to  the 
advantage  of  a  man  to  know  his  own  mind. 
From  the  beginning  she  had  accepted  Ranny 
as  the  Lord  made  him,  concerned  only  to 
perform  aright  her  supplementary  task  of 


The  Dander  of  Susan.  317 

keeping  his  manners  and  morals  straight; 
for,  despite  her  cheerful  commentary  on  the 
surface  foibles  of  her  kind,  Susan  had  a 
fundamental  respect  for  inherent  character 
and  tendencies.  Here,  however,  in  this 
present  crisis,  was  no  question  of  such 
weighty  matters.  This  deplorable  caprice 
of  Ranny's, — it  was,  it  must  be,  fruit  of 
some  light  impulse,  lightly  to  be  checked. 

As  the  placid  clock  ticked  off  second  after 
second,  she  told  herself  that  she  was  really 
taking  things  too  seriously.  Ranny  had  no 
doubt  felt  flattered  by  the  promotion,  and 
for  once  his  excellent  judgment  had  been  at 
fault.  But  as  for  his  going  west, — going 
west!  And  at  the  fatally  reiterative  phrase 
Susan  clasped  her  hands  together  until  the 
knuckles  showed  white.  She  would  yield  in 
everything  else,  but  not  here.  On  that  path 
she  felt  herself  a  very  rock  of  resistance.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  no  locomotive  ever  built 
could  get  past  her  if  it  were  bearing  Ranny 
away.  She  had  a  grotesque  vision  of  the 
whole  westward-bound  traffic  blocked  by 
her  stout  person,  immovable,  indestructible, 
in  its  adamantine  purpose. 

The  clock  struck  twelve;  he  must  soon 
be  here.  And  a  sudden  craving  for  the  sight 


3i 8  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

of  him  stirred  her  to  impatience.  Ah  there 
he  was!  How  often  had  it  happened  that 
he  came  just  when  she  most  wanted  him! 
And  she  held  her  breath  as  the  latch-key 
turned  in  the  lock,  the  big  door  opened,  and 
Ranny  stepped  inside,  a  short,  close-knit 
figure,  shutting  the  door  and  making  it  fast 
with  a  quiet  decision  of  movement  not  sug- 
gestive of  a  pliable  disposition. 

As  the  young  man  turned  to  put  out  the 
gas,  the  light  struck  full  on  his  face,  and 
Susan's  nerves,  strained  already  to  severe 
tension,  vibrated  to  the  shock.  The  boy's 
usually  self-contained  countenance  was  alive 
and  alight  as  she  had  never  seen  it,  not  even 
in  those  rare  moments  of  expansion  which 
only  his  mother  had  shared.  What  could  it 
mean,  this  look  of  exaltation,  of  strong  emo- 
tional up-lift?  She  rose  to  her  feet,  prepared 
to  take  his  secret  by  storm. 

At  sound  of  the  movement  he  glanced 
up  and  saw  his  mother  standing  there;  and 
swiftly,  as  in  conscious  self-defence,  he  turned 
out  the  gas.  But  not  so  quickly  but  that 
she  had  seen  his  face  fall.  A  sickening  re- 
action lamed  her  will.  He  had  come  in 
with  the  look  of  a  young  conqueror,  and  at 
sight  of  his  mother  his  face  had  changed. 


The  Dander  of  Susan.  319 

The  mask  of  darkness  that  fell  as  the  light 
went  out  had  been  no  more  effectual  than 
that  which  his  will  had  summoned  at  the 
same  moment,  against  his  mother. 

"Why,  mother,"  he  exclaimed,  "you  up? 
Anything  wrong?" 

Then  Susan  descended  the  staircase,  lean- 
ing heavily  on  the  balustrade,  and  coming  up 
to  him  said,  "No,  Ranny.  There's  nothing 
wrong.  I  only  thought  I  should  like  to  kiss 
you  good-night." 

"Dear  little  mother!    How  nice  of  you!" 

But  though  he  kissed  her,  dutifully  enough, 
his  words  had  not  the  true  ring. 

And  so  ended  Susan's  first  engagement 
with  the  enemy  that  she  could  not  see,  that 
she  could  not  locate,  of  which  her  very 
scouts  were  afraid.  And  worsted  for  the 
moment,  not  by  the  errant  son  outside  there 
in  a  hostile  world,  but  by  the  mother  in  the 
innermost  depths  of  her,  she  crept  to  her 
bed  and  passed  a  sleepless  night. 

But  not  for  nothing  had  Susan  husbanded 
her  reserve  fund  of  tact  for  great  occasions, 
and  never  did  it  stand  her  in  better  stead 
than  in  the  watches  of  that  sleepless  night, 
from  which  she  arose  with  her  plan  of 
campaign  distinctly  mapped  out. 


320  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

Stepping  to  the  front  door  with  Ranny 
after  breakfast,  as  was  her  daily  custom, 
she  said  quietly,  "You  '11  not  decide  any- 
thing hastily,  will  you,  Ranny?" 

"No,  mother,"  he  answered,  surprised 
and  touched  by  her  forbearance. 

"Just  when  would  it  be  if  you  go  ?  " 

"Not  before  January." 

"Oh  well,"  was  the  cheerful  rejoinder, 
"that's  a  long  way  off!" 

And  upon  that  she  gave  him  quite  the 
same  kind  of  kiss  as  usual;  while  the  pro- 
fessor, witnessing  the  little  scene  from  his 
seat  at  the  breakfast-table,  fell  to  winking 
his  eyes  and  assiduously  wiping  his  glasses. 

But  to-day  Susan  had  no  time  for  the 
indulgence  of  emotion,  and  no  sooner  had 
she  got  the  ordering  of  her  household  off 
her  hands  than  she  made  a  bee-line  for 
James's  store.  She  found  him  in  his  private 
sanctum,  running  through  his  mail,  and,  had 
she  but  guessed  it,  confidently  anticipat- 
ing her  visit.  For  brother  and  sister  had 
exchanged  too  many  home  truths  first 
and  last,  not  to  be  on  terms  of  excellent 
understanding. 

"Now,  James,"  she  began,  without  pre- 
amble, and  planting  herself  at  his  elbow, 


The  Dander  of  Susan.  321 

"out  with  it.  What  did  you  mean  by 
asking  how  Ranny  was  doing  now?" 

"Mean?"  he  repeated,  beginning  to 
sharpen  a  pencil,  and  breaking  off  the 
point.  "Why,  I  was  only  hitting  back." 

"Then  you  were  hitting  back.  I  thought 
so.  Now — what  do  you  know  about 
Ranny?" 

"Mainly  what  his  mother  has  told  me," 
he  answered,  protruding  his  lips  in  sign  of 
craft  and  deliberation. 

"Come,  James,  don't  prevaricate.  You 
meant  something. " 

But  James  seemed  quite  absorbed  in  his 
whittling. 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  Ranny 
that  I  don't?"  she  demanded. 

"How  should  I  know  what  you  know?" 
His  penknife  was  toying  perilously  with  the 
attenuated  point  it  had  achieved.  To  relax 
his  attention  meant  disaster. 

"James!"  The  supplicating  mono- 
syllable struck  home. 

"Well,  Susan, "  he  admitted,  with  a  shrug, 
"since  you  insist.  It's  something  that 
pretty  much  everybody  seems  to  have  got 
wind  of,  except  you  and  Ran. " 

Her  hands  were  so  tight-clasped  by  this, 


322  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

that  one  of  the  fingers  of  her  glove  split 
down  the  seam. 

"Do  you  think  that  is  right ?"  she  asked 
quietly. 

"No,"  cried  James,  tossing  the  pencil 
to  one  side,  regardless  of  the  point,  "I  'm 
blessed  if  I  do!" 

"Then,  for  pity's  sake,  tell  me!" 

He  was  looking  out  at  the  neighboring 
chimney-pots. 

"It 's  a  girl,"  he  answered. 

"A  girl?  Good  heavens,  James!  But 
Ranny  's  nothing  but  a  boy!" 

"That  won't  help  you  any. " 

"But  he  's  too  young." 

"Stuff,  Susan.  He's  older  than  I  was 
when  I  got  married.  We  didn't  think  it 
young  then." 

"Who  is  she?  Do  I  know  her?"  Her 
voice  was  grown  monotonous. 

"You  wouldn't  be  likely  to." 

"Is  she— respectable?" 

"I  guess  so." 

"Guess  so?    James!" 

"She  's  a  working  girl.  They  're  usually 
respectable." 

"What  does  she  do?" 

"Waits  on  table  in  an  ice-cream  saloon." 


The  Dander  of  Susan.  323 

But  Susan  never  flinched. 

"Where?"  she  asked,  in  the  same  dull, 
level  tone. 

"On  Marlowe  Street,  next  the  theatre." 

"Do  you  know  her  name?" 

"Not  all  of  it.    They  call  her  Biddy." 

And  still  she  kept  a  steady  front. 

' '  How  did  you  find  out  about  it  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Well,  Aleck  Pratt  met  them  driving 
together  a  week  ago ;  and  the  girls  saw  them 
at  the  cathedral  at  some  musical  shindy; 
and  they  've  been  rowing  up-river.  Mary 
Anne's  boys  almost  ran  them  down  under 
the  willows  one  day  last  August.  It 's 
always  Sundays.  Guess  they  've  been  going 
together  for  a  good  six  months." 

"And  nobody  told  me!" 

"I  suppose  they  kind  o'  hated  to  bell  the 
cat." 

"James!" 

"Oh,  I  'm  not  excusing  them,  nor  myself 
either;  though  I  did  n't  know  a  word  of  it 
till  Tuesday,  and  I  've  been  trying  to  get 
the  spunk  to  break  it  to  you.  For  of  course 
it 's  got  to  be  headed  off,  and  the  sooner 
the  better." 

James  rather  prided  himself  on  his  family 
pride. 


324  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

"But  how  did  everybody  know  who  it 
was?"  she  persisted,  driving  hard  at  the 
point,  like  a  seasoned  cross-examiner. 

"Oh,  it 's  a  place  the  young  folks  go  to 
for  an  ice-cream  of  an  afternoon,  or  after 
the  theatre." 

"After  the  theatre?  A  young  woman! 
For  she  is  young?" 

"Presumably."  Then,  with  a  keen  look 
at  his  sister,  "Going  to  do  anything  about 
it?" 

"Do  anything!"  The  challenge  brought 
her  to  her  feet.  "I  rather  think  I  am  going 
to  'do  anything'!" 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"/  'm  going  to  get  an  ice-cream!19 

"Good!"  he  cried,  springing  to  his  feet. 
And  as  he  held  the  door  open  for  her,  "I  '11 
bank  on  you,  Susan,  when  once  you  get 
your  dander  up!" 

And  Susan,  strong  in  the  "dander"  of  that 
brotherly  encomium,  marched  straight  for 
the  "Ice-cream  Parlor,"  as  it  called  itself, 
which  already  her  imagination  was  painting 
in  lurid  colors.  She  was  a  bit  taken  aback 
to  find  it  merely  a  quiet,  decorous  place,  with 
rows  of  marble- top  tables,  mostly  unoccupied 
at  this  hour,  and  a  bevy  of  tidy  waitresses 


The  Dander  of  Susan.  325 

gossiping  in  a  corner.  As  the  stout,  elderly 
customer  entered  and  took  her  seat,  a 
prettyish  little  person  with  freckles,  de- 
taching herself  from  the  group  of  girls, 
came  down  between  the  tables  and  stood 
at  attention. 

" Bring  me  a  chocolate  ice-cream,'*  Susan 
commanded,  endeavoring  to  look  as  if  such 
were  her  customary  diet  at  this  hour  of  the 
day. 

"There's  no  thin*  but  vanilla  so  early  in 
the  mornin'." 

"Then  bring  me  vanilla!" 

Susan  loathed  vanilla  and  all  its  works; 
but  that  was  neither  here  nor  there.  Cold 
poison  would  scarce  have  daunted  her  in 
this  militant  mood. 

And  when  the  initial  sacrifice  was  accom- 
plished, and  she  was  valiantly  imbibing  of 
the  highly  flavored  concoction,  Ranny's 
mother  set  herself  to  a  systematic  study  of 
that  group  of  girls.  At  first  the  half-dozen 
potential  adversaries  looked  to  her  exactly 
alike,  and  one  and  all  she  regarded  with 
impartial  antagonism.  But  presently  she 
found  her  attention  concentrating  upon  a 
certain  tall,  showy  blond,  of  stately  bearing 
and  masterful  address,  still  further  endowed 


326  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

with  a  rich  brogue, — the  only  genuine  thing 
about  the  hussy,  Susan  told  herself,  taking 
vindictive  note  of  each  unlovely  trait  which 
made  the  girl  conspicuous.  And  that  the 
maternal  instinct,  now  keenly  on  the  scent, 
should  lack  no  confirmation,  there  straight- 
way arose  an  agitated  whisper  of,  "Look 
sharp,  Biddy;  it  's  your  turn!"  And  behold 
the  Biddy  of  her  worst  forebodings,  bearing 
down  upon  a  youth  in  tweeds,  who  had  just 
seated  himself  at  one  of  the  tables,  and  taking 
him  in  charge,  with  an  air  of  competence 
which  left  no  doubt  in  Susan's  mind  of  the 
girl's  sinister  identity.  She  recalled,  with 
a  shudder,  Ranny's  fatal  predilection  for 
great  bouncing  partners,  away  back  in 
dancing-school,  when,  to  his  mother's  un- 
speakable chagrin,  he  was  forever  leading 
out  the  tallest  bean-pole  of  the  class.  Yes; 
all  signs  and  portents  converged  upon  that 
stately  siren;  and  as  Susan  grasped  their 
ominous  significance,  her  dander  rose  to 
boiling  point,  driving  her  brain  in  a  dozen 
directions  at  once. 

"So  you  would  propose  offering  her 
money?"  the  professor  inquired,  in  his 
leisurely,  speculative  tone,  when  she  had 


The  Dander  of  Susan.  327 

sprung  upon  him  her  whole  arsenal  of 
high-pressure  conclusions. 

"To  be  sure.  What  else  can  we  do? 
Money  is  the  only  possible  bait  for  a  creature 
like  that." 

Hm!  Susan  was  undoubtedly  right  about 
it.  And  what  a  picturesque  way  she  had 
of  expressing  herself!  Only — might  not  the 
hook  have  to  be  heavily  baited?  The  pro- 
fessor, whose  youth  had  known  the  spur  of 
necessity,  was  not  always  able  to  share  his 
wife's  exuberant  indifference  respecting  the 
power  that  makes  the  mare  go. 

"If  only  her  demands  be  not  exorbitant," 
he  ventured  half-heartedly. 

"What  if  they  are?"  was  the  gallant 
rejoinder.  "You  wouldn't  have  the  hussy 
put  a  low  price  on  Ranny!" 

And  that  night  Susan  slept  a  sleep  so 
confident  and  so  unbroken,  that  morning 
was  upon  her  in  no  time. 

At  the  earliest  possible  hour,  and  wishing 
that  she  might  have  the  incredible  luck  of 
attracting  the  siren  to  her  service,  she  re- 
paired to  the  scene  of  action.  But  again 
the  little  waitress  of  the  previous  day  came 
forward,  this  time  with  an  engaging  smile 
of  welcome. 


328  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

"We  've  got  chocolate  ice-cream  this 
mornin',"  the  girl  announced,  pleased  as 
if  catering  to  an  honored  guest. 

"How  nice  of  you  to  remember  what  I 
liked,"  said  Susan,  glancing  up  into  the 
friendly  little  face,  which  seemed  all  the 
more  attractive  for  its  piquant  spatter  of 
freckles. 

"I  always  remember  what  folks  like." 
The  unconscious  disclaimer  was  pronounced 
with  a  slight  brogue, — a  mere  lilt,  as  com- 
pared with  the  siren's  challenging  accents,— 
but  slight  as  it  was,  it  touched  a  spring,  and 
Susan's  thoughts  were  off  and  away. 

Her  intrepid  fancy  had  just  arrived  at  the 
point  when  she  should  confront  the  enemy,  a 
check  for  a  large  amount  in  one  hand,  in  the 
other  some  sort  of  legal  quit-claim  for  Ranny, 
when  a  much  over-dressed  young  woman 
made  a  rustling  exit  from  the  room,  and 
Susan's  ear  was  caught  by  the  delicate 
brogue  of  her  own  little  Hebe,  bubbling  over 
with,  "Say,  gurrls!  did  ye  mind  the  hat  on 
her?  Right  on  top  of  her  head,  where  anny- 
body  could  see  ut !  Now  would  n't  yer 
thought  she  'd  ha'  put  a  thing  like  that 
under  the  table?" 

And  as  the  girls  broke  into  suppressed 


Susan 
Susan's  ear  was  caught  by  the  delicate  brogue  of  her  own  little  Hebe. 


The  Dander  of  Susan.  329 

titterings,  "Ach,  go  'way  wid  ye,  Biddy!" 
the  siren  cried.  "  'T  ain't  a  patch  on  my 
new  chapeau!" 

Susan's  heart  contracted  with  a  quick 
misgiving.  So  that  was  Biddy  too,  the 
dear  little  one  who  had  remembered  that 
she  preferred  chocolate!  She  hoped  to  good- 
ness that  that  was  not  Ranny's  Biddy,— 
that  honest  little  human  girl  with  the  sweet 
voice  and  the  spirited,  sensitive  face!  At 
mere  thought  of  an  antagonist  like  that, 
Susan's  dander  dropped  to  zero. 

"How  many  Biddys  have  you  here?" 
she  inquired,  ostentatiously  fumbling  in 
her  purse  for  change,  while  the  little  Biddy 
waited. 

"Only  one.  I  'm  the  only  Biddy  o'  the 
bunch." 

"But  I  thought  they  called  that  tall  one 
Biddy." 

"Her?    Oh,  she's  Liddy." 

"And  you  are  Biddy,"  Susan  repeated, 
still  managing  not  to  find  that  illusive  coin. 
"And  pray  what  is  your  other  name?" 

"Molloy."  It  fell  on  the  "ear  like  a  note 
of  music.  

"Biddy  Molloy.  How  pretty!"  was  the 
involuntary  comment. 


330  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

"Do  you  like  ut?  Maybe  ye 're  Irish 
yerself?" 

"Oh,  no!" 

"Well,  it's  no  disgrace,"  quoth  Biddy, 
with  a  little  toss.  The  protest  had  been  a 
thought  too  spontaneous. 

"No,  no.  I  didn't  mean  it  that  way. 
But,  don't  you  think  we  all  like  to  be  what 
we  really  are?  Now,  you  would  n't  want 
to  be  a  Yankee  girl;  would  you,  my 
dear?" 

"I  use  n't  to,"  was  the  candid  response. 
"But  now" — and  she  sighed  wistfully — 
"I  don't  know." 

Then  Susan  knew,  with  a  knowledge  as 
different  as  possible  from  any  fantastic 
theories  of  tall  girls  and  competent  sirens, 
that  this  was  Ranny's  Biddy;  and  deeply 
dejected,  yet  curiously  consoled,  as  well, 
she  cashed  her  little  ticket  and  went  her 
ways. 

To-morrow  was  Sunday,  and  when  Ranny 
slipped  away  to  his  poor  little  fool's  paradise, 
he  never  guessed  what  solicitous  and  tender 
thoughts  were  following  him.  It  was  Indian 
summer  weather,  and  Susan  could  fancy  the 
two  young  people — how  touchingly  young 
they  were! — rowing,  up-river,  where  Mary 


The  Dander  of  Susan.  331 

Anne's  boys  had  once  come  upon  them. 
All  day  long  she  was  haunted  by  a  picture 
of  their  little  boat,  passing  under  the  willows, 
Ranny  at  the  oar,  Biddy  paddling  an  idle 
hand  in  the  water.  She  saw  it  all  as  vividly 
as  if  she  had  been  standing  on  the  bank. 
She  saw  the  reflection  of  the  boat  in  the 
tranquil  stream;  in  their  faces  the  reflection 
of  an  honest,  natural  love,  such  as  all  young 
things  have  a  right  to, — a  love  that  had  come 
to  flower  in  the  sweet  out-of-door  life,  in 
the  Sabbath  stillness,  or  quickened  and  up- 
lifted on  the  strains  of  great  cathedral 
music.  For  Susan  was  imaginative,  in  her 
own  homely  way,  and  the  casual  touches  in 
James's  report,  which  had  passed  unnoticed 
at  the  moment,  fitted  now  into  Ranny 's  little 
love-story,  as  a  tune  will  fit  the  verse  it  was 
written  for. 

As  the  beautiful  Indian-summer  day  wore 
on,  poor  Susan,  dramatic,  sentimental,  soft- 
hearted, hardly  dared  look  her  unsuspecting 
husband  in  the  eye.  And  yet  his  counsel 
tallied  closely  with  her  own  inclinations. 
For  the  thrifty  man,  only  too  ready  to  agree 
that  this  was  no  case  for  bribery  and  corrup- 
tion, urged  upon  her  the  necessity  of  getting 
to  know  the  girl  better,  of  winning  her  confi- 


334  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

adjusting  the  loosened  knot,  "or  I  '11  have 
ye  put  out  o'  this!"  Whereupon  the  young- 
ster blushed  and  grinned  and  looked  a  hun- 
dred foolish  things. 

That  same  afternoon,  however, — it  was 
only  Tuesday, — Biddy  showed  another  side, 
a  new  phase  of  that  vivacious  temperament 
which  she  had  so  well  in  hand.  The  tables 
were  nearly  all  full,  when  the  girl  stepped 
up  to  an  unprepossessing  person  in  a  "sporty" 
necktie,  and  waited  his  order.  The  fellow 
saw  fit  to  speak  so  low  that  Biddy  was 
forced  to  bend  her  head,  which  she  did  with 
manifest  repugnance.  What  he  said  was 
inaudible  to  Susan,  keenly  alert  as  always, 
but  the  effect  was  electric.  Straightening 
up,  the  girl  flashed  back,  "I  guess  I  'm  too 
busy  to  wait  on  you!" 

As  she  turned  away  in  tingling  scorn, 
the  competent  siren,  already  come  to  seem 
as  chimerical  as  her  sisters  of  ancient  lore, 
went  sailing  across  the  room,  and  took  the 
discomfited  gallant  under  her  protection. 

At  last,  on  Thursday, — just  one  week  it 
was,  one  anxious,  futile,  poignant  week,  from 
the  day  James  put  that  fateful  question 
about  Ranny, — the  professor  was  brought, 
much  against  his  will,  to  expose  himself 


The  Dander  of  Susan.  335 

to  the  seductions  of  ice-cream  at  an  ungodly 
hour  and,  ostensibly  at  least,  to  bring  a 
trained  mind  to  bear  upon  the  situation. 
Did  Susan  have  a  sneaking  hope  that  he  too 
might  succumb  to  Biddy's  artless  charm, 
that  he  too  might  own  himself  baffled  and 
at  a  loss?  If  so,  she  had  for  once  misread 
the  open  book  that  was  her  husband's 
mind. 

"Well,  dear,  and  how  do  you  feel  about  it 
now?"  she  inquired  anxiously,  as  they  passed 
out  into  the  busy  city  street,  and  wended 
their  way  to  the  horse-car,  arm  in  arm, 
—an  unblushing  anachronism  among  the 
up-to-date  populace. 

"Feel  about  it!"  he  repeated,  so  gruffly 
that  she  could  hardly  credit  her  ears.  "I 
feel  that  you  Ve  got  to  come  to  an  under- 
standing with  that  girl,  and  be  quick  about 
it  too,  or  /  7/  not  answer  for  Ranny!"  As 
if  anybody  had  thought  of  answering  for 
Ranny,  by  the  way. 

Then  Susan  knew  that  matters  were 
serious, — that  her  husband  was  bracing 
himself  to  take  a  stand;  and  she  trembled 
at  thought  of  the  consequences.  For,  like 
many  another  tractable  man,  the  professor 
had  his  rare  periods  of  mutiny,  when  he 


336  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

became  irritable,   dogmatic,   yet  fatally  in- 
effective. 

They  were  sitting,  as  usual  at  dusk,  before 
the  study  fire,  trying  to  look  the  Darby  and 
Joan  they  could  not  feel  to-night,  when 
suddenly  the  professor  broke  the  silence. 

•  "Susan,"  he  declared, — and  his  tone 
was  so  accusatory  that  she  felt  her  courage 
shrivel  up  as  in  a  killing  frost, — "  Susan, 
you  are  in  love  with  that  girl,  yourself!'* 

It  was  her  own  conscience  coming  to 
speech  on  his  lips,  and  she  dared  make  no 
denial. 

"Perhaps  I  have  been  foolish,  Randidge, " 
she  faltered.  "But  the  little  thing  is  so 
pretty,  and  so  plucky,  and  so  alone!" 

"Not  so  much  alone  as  she  had  better  be ! " 
he  asserted  harshly;  at  which,  conscience  or 
no  conscience,  Susan  was  up  in  arms. 

"Randidge,"  she  cried,  "how  can  you 
be  so  unfeeling?" 

"I  'm  not  unfeeling,"  he  insisted,  grown 
suddenly  didactic  and  authoritative.  "Quite 
the  contrary;  I  am  feeling  deeply.  But  my 
eyes  are  opened,  and  I  see  things  as  they 
are, — things  that  you,  in  your  lamentable 
soft-heartedness,  are  unable  to  apprehend. 
I  see  that  you  are  playing  fast  and  loose 


The  Dander  of  Susan.  337 

with  a  very  critical  situation.  Here  is  our 
son,  our  only  son,  exposed  to  one  of  the 
gravest  dangers  that  can  beset  a  young 
man  on  the  threshold  of  life, — an  ill-assorted 
marriage — marriage  with  a  young  person, — " 
Susan  was  holding  her  tongue  by  sheer 
force  of  will,  recognizing  the  justice  of  her 
husband's  contention,  recognizing  her  duty 
to  Ranny,  yet  conscious  of  a  climbing  revolt 
that  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  reason, 

-"marriage  with  a  young  person,"  he  was 
saying,  "an  ignorant,  underbred  young 
person,  who  would  be  a  drag  upon  him  all 
his  life.  And  just  because  she  has  a  pretty 
face  and  a  taking  way  with  her, — I  will 
admit  that  I  observed  that  trait  in  her 
myself, — but  just  because  of  these  skin-deep 
attractions,  you  are  weakly  sacrificing  your 
own  child,  his  happiness  for  life,  rather  than 
take  the  most  obvious  measures  for  saving 
him." 

"No,  Randidge,"  Susan  interposed,  with 
a  slow,  fierce  self-control.  "If  you  want 
me  to  agree  with  you,  you  must  put  it 
differently." 

In  the  heat  of  conflict  they  had  not  heard 
the  latch-key,  nor  the  closing  of  the  front 
door, — Ranny  was  always  quiet  in  his 


338  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

movements, — nor  were  they  aware  of  his 
approach,  as  he  halted  on  the  threshold 
behind  them,  arrested  by  the  tenor  of  their 
talk.  This  was  his  concern;  he  had  a  right 
to  play  the  eavesdropper. 

"I  tell  you,  Susan,"  the  professor  went 
pounding  on,  "she  is  a  girl  of  low  extraction, 
and  has  lived  all  her  life  in  a  demoralizing 
atmosphere.  Working  in  a  public  restau- 
rant of  an  evening,  exposed  even  by  day  to 
such  rudeness  as  you  yourself  described  to 
me,  walking  the  street  at  midnight,  subject 
to  still  worse  affronts,  living  by  herself,  with 
no  one  to  see  to  it  that  she  leads  a  decent 
life " 

There  was  a  menacing  light  in  the  eyes 
of  the  listener  on  the  threshold,  and  his 
hands  were  clenched  till  the  knuckles  showed 
white,  precisely  as  his  mother's  were  doing, 
over  there  in  the  firelight.  But  Susan 
broke  in  just  in  time. 

"Stop,  Randidge,"  she  cried  peremptorily. 
"Stop  just  where  you  are!  I  'm  ashamed 
of  you!  Yes,  I  'm  ashamed  of  you!  To 
throw  it  up  against  that  brave  young  thing 
that  she  lives  the  life  she  is  obliged  to  live, 
the  only  life  that  is  open  to  her,  with  no 
one  to  protect  her,  no  one  to  guide  her,  no 


The  Dander  of  Susan.  339 

one  to  love  her!  Has  n't  she  as  good  a  right 
to  all  that  as  any  other  girl?  Has  n't  she 
a  warm  heart,  and  a  sweet  soul,  and  the 
courage  of  a  little  soldier?  Is  n't  she  witty, 
is  n't  she  kind,  is  n't  she  good?  What  more 
do  you  want  in  a  young  girl?" 

"But,  Susan,"  the  poor  man  cried,  vainly 
trying  to  stem  the  flood  he  had  rashly  let 
loose,  "her  low  origin,  her  lack  of  education! 
Why,  she  can't  even  speak  grammatically!" 

"Speak  grammatically!"  Susan  retorted, 
ruthlessly  pouncing  on  the  anti-climax. 
"Neither  did  my  Grandmother  Pratt  speak 
grammatically;  and  that 's  why  we  remem- 
ber what  she  said!  There  was  some  flavor 
to  her  sayings!  What  's  the  good  of  every- 
body talking  just  alike,  as  if  we  were  a  lot 
of  poll-parrots,  huddled  together  in  one  cage? 
And  what  are  we,  anyway,  you  and  I  ?  I  Ve 
never  heard  of  any  coronets  hanging  on  our 
family  trees,  ner  any  laurel  wreaths  either! 
What 's  my  family ?  What 's  yours ? ' '  And 
now  Susan  had  slipped  the  moorings  of  a 
lifetime.  "You  were  nothing  but  a  farmer's 
boy,  with  your  own  way  to  make,  and  that 's 
exactly  what  Biddy's  father  was  in  the  old 
country!  What  have  all  the  women  of 
my  family  done,  more  than  love  their  hus- 


340  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

bands,  and  bring  up  their  children  the  best 
they  knew  how?  I  'd  like  to  have  you  show 
me  a  sweeter,  better  girl  than  our  Ranny's 
little  Biddy,  to  do  just  that!" 

"Mother!" 

It  broke  like  a  great  sob  across  her  words, 
and  as  the  professor  looked  around,  dazed 
and  defeated,  there  were  Ranny  and  his 
mother,  locked  in  each  other's  arms,  as  it 
were,  carved  out  of  a  single  block,  Rodin- 
fashion  ;  only  there  was  n't  any  Rodin  in 
those  days,  that  anybody  ever  heard  of. 

Susan  was  the  first  to  break  that  rap- 
turous spell. 

"Oh,  what  have  I  done?"  she  cried,  as 
one  who  wakes  from  a  bewildering  dream. 

"Done!"  the  professor  echoed,  settling 
back  in  his  chair,  and  thanking  Heaven 
that  it  had  not  been  his  doing. 

But  in  Ranny's  face  was  the  look  she  had 
seen  but  once,  and  this  time  it  was  all  for 
his  mother. 


M 


X. 

SHIPS   IN  THE  AIR. 

ARK  my  words,"  said  Emerson 
Swain,  "if  Hazeldean  thinks  there 's 
anything  those  French  army  ex- 
perts don't  know  about  ballooning,  he 's 
simply  got  a  bee  in  his  bonnet,  and  the 
sooner  he  finds  it  out,  the  better." 

The  Swains  were  passing  the  college 
recess  with  Hattie's  parents,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Ben  Pratt.  Young  Ben  and  his  wife,  Alicia, 
having  dropped  in \  for  a  Sunday  call,  the 
moment  seemed  propitious  for  a  candid 
consideration  of  the  one  perplexing  member 
of  the  family,  and  it  was  felt  that  the  last 
speaker  had  contributed  materially  to  the 
discussion.  Such  an  utterance  from  such 
a  source  certainly  merited  attention,  for 
Emerson,  having  served  three  years  in  the 
Civil  War,  where  he  had  acquired  a  game 
leg  and  the  title  of  Colonel  (he  had  promptly 


342  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

dropped  the  latter,  but  had  kept  what  he 
could  of  the  other),  was  the  family  authority 
on  matters  military. 

"That 's  pretty  much  the  way  Hazeldean 
himself  goes  on  about  those  siege  balloons," 
was  young  Ben's  dispassionate  comment; 
"he  says  they  're  no  better  than  great 
blundering  bumble-bees. " 

"My  little  brother  got  stung  by  a  bee 
one  day,"  Alicia  remarked;  "quite  a  lump 
came  on  his  forehead." 

Alicia's  conversation  resembled  nothing 
so  much  as  the  piano  -  playing  of  a  person 
who  does  n't  know  when  he  is  getting  his 
bass  wrong,  if  only  the  tune  tinkles.  Per- 
haps that  was  why  one  could  already  trace 
hints  of  the  crow's-feet  which  time  would 
soon  begin  engraving  at  the  corners  of  her 
husband's  humorous  blue  eyes. 

"It 's  all  my  fault,"  Hazeldean's  mother 
declared,  in  a  tone  of  mingled  remorse  and 
apprehension;  "if  it  hadn't  been  for  that 
dream  I  'm  forever  dreaming,  of  flying 
down-stairs  and  circulating  round  under  the 
ceiling,  Hazeldean  might  never  have  got 
flying-machines  on  the  brain." 

"Yes,  Martha,"  her  husband  chuckled, 
"we  all  know  you're  a  high-flyer.  It's 


Ships  in  the  Air.  343 

only  a  wonder  your  children  have  turned 
out  as  well  as  they  have.  Eh,  Emmy?" 

Emerson  Swain  grinned,  as  he  always 
did  when  his  father-in-law  called  him  "  Em- 
my, "  and  thanked  heaven  that  he  had  mar- 
ried into  such  a  pleasant  family.  If  Ben 
teased  you,  you  might  be  fairly  certain  that 
he  liked  you.  His  wife,  for  instance,  he 
loved  with  all  his  heart,  which  in  his  case 
was  saying  a  good  deal;  hearts  being,  as  his 
mother,  Old  Lady  Pratt,  was  fond  of  assert- 
ing, Ben's  "strong  suit."  But  he  could 
never  let  her  foibles  alone;  and  of  all  the 
teasable  phases  of  Martha's  character,  none 
was  more  perennially  diverting  than  this 
particular  vagary  of  her  dreams.  The  vision 
of  his  wife's  substantial  person,  always  scrupu- 
lously attired,  and  of  inviolable  decorum, 
floating  nonchalantly  over  the  heads  of  her 
fellow  creatures,  never  lost  its  charm  for  Ben. 

Hattie,  meanwhile,  who  was  sitting  on  the 
old  satin  ottoman,  balancing  a  preternaturally 
solemn  baby  on  her  knee,  was  still  intent  upon 
her  husband's  confident  pronouncement. 

"I  don't  see  what 's  to  prevent  Hazeldean 
setting  up  a  whole  swarm  of  bees  in  his 
bonnet,"  she  observed,  "now  that  Uncle 
Edward  has  left  him  all  that  money." 


344  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

"But  that 's  just  the  mischief  of  it, 
Hattie,"  her  husband  demurred,  "I  con- 
sider that  he  has  come  into  his  fortune  at  a 
most  inopportune  moment, — precisely  when 
he  was  experiencing  a  recrudescence  of  his 
unfortunate  hallucination." 

Hattie  cocked  her  head  knowingly  and,  ad- 
dressing the  solemn  baby,  remarked,  "Those 
are  lovely  long  words,  are  n't  they,  toddle- 
kins?  But  if  we  take  to  croaking  they  11 
think  we  're  jealous." 

At  which  juncture  Hazeldean  himself 
strolled  into  the  room  and,  with  a  casual 
nod  to  his  brother  and  Alicia,  dropped  down 
on  the  ottoman,  shoulder  to  shoulder  with 
Hattie. 

"Did  I  interrupt?"  he  inquired,  glancing 
from  one  to  the  other  of  the  little  assem- 
blage, which  appeared  about  as  unconscious 
as  a  rocking-chair  whose  occupant  has 
precipitately  left  the  room. 

"Not  at  all,"  chirped  Hattie.  "We  were 
merely  discussing  the  Franco-Prussian  War." 

"Hm!  I  see.  So  that  's  why  you  all 
looked  as  if  you  had  eaten  the  canary. " 

"Minnie  Dodge  says  it  's  cruel  to  keep  a 
canary,"  Alicia  threw  in.  "She  says  birds 
were  made  to  fly  about. " 


Ships  in  the  Air.  345 

"A  fact  which  few  persons  would  appear 
to  have  observed, "  was  Hazeldean's  thought- 
ful rejoinder.  Having  delivered  himself  of 
which,  he  relapsed  against  the  pudgy  cush- 
ions, and  endeavored  to  insert  a  finger  into 
the  tight  little  fist  of  his  small  nephew. 

Hazeldean  Pratt  would  have  been  a 
striking  figure  in  any  company,  but  no- 
where did  his  personality  stand  out  more 
sharply  by  contrast  than  in  his  own  com- 
fortable family  circle.  Lolling  there  on  the 
ottoman,  to  be  sure,  his  superior  height  was 
lost  upon  the  observer,  while  his  strongly 
idealistic  brow  and  searching  eyes,  bent 
now  upon  the  youngest  scion  of  the  stock, 
were  less  in  evidence  than  usual.  And  yet, 
the  stooping  shoulders,  the  fixed  gaze  at 
that  irresponsive  morsel  of  humanity,  the 
complete  absorption  in  an  enterprise  of  no 
moment,  all  bespoke  a  temperament  of 
alien  intensity.  Hattie  herself,  for  all  her 
liveliness  of  disposition,  was  a  restful  per- 
sonality by  comparison. 

As  their  mother  glanced  across  the  room 
at  the  little  group  on  the  ottoman  which, 
despite  the  fashions  of  the  early  seventies, 
had  about  it  a  curious  touch  of  elder  art,  she 
inquired,  "Have  you  seen  grandmother 


346  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

to-day,  Hazeldean?  It 's  her  birthday,  you 
know. " 

"No;  I  'm  on  my  way  there,  now." 

"Hope  it  don't  make  you  dizzy  to  go  so 
fast,"  his  father  remarked,  placidly  shifting 
to  starboard  the  bit  of  slippery-elm  which 
he  called  his  "lubricator." 

Hazeldean,  whose  index  finger  had  at  last 
effected  a  junction  with  his  nephew's  coy 
little  palm,  did  not  at  once  reply.  But  as 
the  tiny  hand  relaxed,  for  all  the  world  like 
an  opening  rosebud,  and  Hattie  took  jealous 
possession  of  the  soft  pink  petals,  he  straight- 
ened himself  and,  lifting  his  long  length 
from  the  seat,  observed,  "You  know  we  're 
all  travelling  along  at  the  rate  of  nineteen 
miles  a  second."  Then,  as  he  crossed  the 
threshold  into  the  entry-way,  and  picked 
up  his  hat,  "Funny,  isn't  it?"  he  called 
back,  "that  we  never  seem  to  get  there!" 

"Get  where?"  asked  Alicia. 

But  the  closing  of  the  heavy  front  door 
was  the  only  answer  vouchsafed  her  very 
pertinent  inquiry. 

For  Hazeldean  was  already  sauntering 
down  the  path  in  the  deepening  twilight, 
pondering  the  thing  he  had  said.  He 
glanced  up  at  the  first  star  of  evening,  burn- 


Ships  in  the  Air.  347 

ing  still  and  serene  to  mortal  eye  as  if  it 
were  not  rushing  through  space  at  a  fabulous 
rate  of  speed.  Hazeldean  loved  the  stars 
in  their  courses ;  they  were  the  mighty  proto- 
type of  all  flying  things. 

"If  I  had  said  five  hundred  and  ninety- 
six  million  miles  a  year,"  he  reflected,  as  he 
passed  through  the  gate,  and  bent  his  steps 
in  the  opposite  direction  from  his  grand- 
mother's house,  "it  would  n't  have  conveyed 
any  idea  to  their  minds.  But  we  can  most 
of  us  count  up  to  twenty."  Then,  with  a 
quick  turn  of  thought, — "And  up  to 
twenty,  I  reckoned  that  I  could  fetch  it 
myself." 

The  fact  that  the  young  man  had  turned 
in  the  opposite  direction  from  his  goal  was 
no  sign  that  he  had  relinquished  it.  He  had 
his  own  way  of-  doing  things,  even  to  so 
simple  a  matter  as  going  to  pay  his  respects 
to  his  grandmother.  And  to-night,  before 
confronting  the  sybil  of  the  family,  who 
was  in  a  quite  peculiar  sense  his  own  sybil, 
he  wanted  to  do  a  bit  of  thinking  out  there 
in  the  starlight. 

From  boyhood  up,  this  offshoot  of  an 
eminently  common-sense  family  had  pursued 
the  will-o'-the-wisp  of  a  fly  ing -machine; 


348  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

not  a  good,  honest,  puffy  balloon,  mind 
you,  that  should  have  the  law  of  gravity, 
or,  more  properly  speaking,  the  law  of  levity, 
in  its  favor,  but  something  in  the  nature 
of  an  automaton,  designed  to  rise  in  the 
air,  and  propel  itself  hither  and  yon  in  open 
defiance  of  those  well-established  laws.  Such 
a  notion  was,  of  course,  too  apocryphal  to 
be  taken  seriously,  unless  when  the  youngster 
had  chanced  to  break  a  collar-bone  or  damage 
his  Sunday  breeches  in  the  cause;  and  by 
the  time  he  was  fairly  out  of  his  teens,  his 
easy-going  people  were  only  too  glad  to 
believe  that  he  had  given  over  such  child's- 
play  for  good  and  all. 

He  had  now  been  for  several  years  con- 
nected with  a  patent-solicitor's  office,  where 
his  natural  bent  for  invention  was  proving 
a  not  inconsiderable  asset.  And  here  he 
had  been  witness  of  so  many  futile  efforts  in 
one  or  another  field  of  mechanics,  he  had 
seen  so  many  fiascos,  incurred,  too,  by  men 
of  greater  originality  than  himself,  that 
his  disillusionment  touching  his  own  ability 
had  been  complete.  He  was  as  firmly 
persuaded  as  ever  that  the  day  of  the  flying- 
machine  was  not  far  off,  but  equally  con- 
vinced that  he  was  not  the  man  to  work 


Ships  in  the  Air.  349 

out  the  problem.  And  thus  rid  of  a  serious 
handicap,  he  bade  fair  to  become  a  useful 
average  member  of  society. 

In  fact,  the  young  visionary  was  prob- 
ably never  in  a  more  normal  frame  of  mind 
than  on  the  evening,  a  year  or  more  ago, 
when  he  first  met  Miss  Hester  Burdick,  the 
new  grammar-school  teacher,  at  his  grand- 
mother's house.  Certainly  he  could  have 
given  no  better  evidence  of  good  sense  than 
was  to  be  discerned  in  the  promptness  with 
which  he  fell  in  love  with  that  admirable 
young  woman,  who,  for  her  part,  had  already 
shown  herself  equally  discriminating  by  fall- 
ing in  love  with  Hazeldean's  grandmother. 
The  young  school-teacher  was  boarding  next 
door  with  her  cousins,  "the  Doctor  Baxters," 
and  she  and  Old  Lady  Pratt  had  struck  up 
a  great  intimacy> 

As  Hazeldean  strode  along  in  the  star- 
light, with  quickening  step,  his  mind  reverted 
to  that  first  sight  of  Hester,  holding  a  skein 
of  worsted  for  Aunt  Betsy,  who  was  smil- 
ing, with  a  pleased  sense  of  companionship, 
while  the  girl's  eyes  rested  upon  the  clear- 
cut  features  of  her  hostess,  among  which  one 
could  almost  read  the  thought  that  had  just 
found  terse  expression.  Old  Lady  Pratt 


350  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

had  looked  up  brightly  as  her  grandson 
entered,  saying: 

"Come  in,  Hazeldean.  I  want  to  make 
you  acquainted  with  Miss  Hester  Burdick. 
She  's  a  nice  girl,  and  likes  old  ladies. " 

From  which  moment  Hazeldean  found 
himself  in  the  highly  unconventional  posi- 
tion of  being  the  declared  rival  of  his  own 
grandmother. 

An  unsuccessful  rival,  alas,  for  within 
the  year  he  had  twice  suffered  rejection. 
The  last  time  had  been  a  few  days  after  his 
accession  to  fortune,  when,  if  ever,  his  suit 
would  have  seemed  likely  to  prosper. 

A  curious  thing  about  that  fortune,  by 
the  way.  No  one  but  Hazeldean 's  mother 
could  conceive  why,  if  one  nephew  was  to 
be  singled  out  for  favor,  it  should  not  have 
been  Edward,  the  youngest,  who  had  been 
avowedly  named  for  his  uncle.  But  Martha, 
happy  in  the  advantage  of  having  been  born 
a  Hazeldean,  understood  that  it  was  the 
family  name  that  her  brother,  having  only 
daughters  of  his  own,  had  rejoiced  to  see 
perpetuated.  She  knew  that  his  ideas,  like 
hers,  were  generic  rather  than  specific. 

"Queer,  ain't  it?"  Old  Lady  Pratt  had 
remarked  to  Ben,  apropos  of  his  brother-in- 


Ships  in  the  Air.  351 

law's  will,  "the  satisfaction  some  folks  appear 
to  git  out  of  a  family  pride  they  can't  p'int 
to  any  particular  reason  for?  Now  the 
Hazeldeans  come  of  good  stock  enough,  like 
the  rest  of  us,  but  I  ain't  never  hearn  tell  of 
any  on  'em  settin'  the  river  afire;  hev  you?" 

"P'raps  it's  the  brilliant  matches  they 
make,"  Ben  ventured.  " There  's  Edward, 
married  money,  and  Martha, — well,  she 
drew  me!  Ain't  that  enough  to  make  any 
family  feel  kind  o'  perky?" 

Thanks  then  to  a  family  pride  denied  a 
legitimate  basis,  Hazeldean  found  himself 
possessor  of  a  fortune  denied  a  legitimate 
use.  For,  since  Hester  would  n't  have  him 
and  his  fortune,  of  what  possible  good  was 
either? 

It  was  just  as  he  had  arrived  at  this  dead- 
ening conclusion  that  a  thing  happened 
which  infused  a  very  explicit  meaning  into 
life.  If  he  could  not  be  off  with  the  new  love, 
he  could  at  least  be  on  with  the  old:  a 
reversal  of  the  usual  order  which  struck  him 
as  original,  if  not  altogether  consolatory. 

He  had  been  the  first  to  put  in  an  appear- 
ance at  the  office  one  morning,  now  some 
three  weeks  since,  when  a  man  entered  who 
introduced  himself  as  Hiram  Lane.  He 


352  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

looked  about  forty,  and  was  soberly,  not 
to  say  shabbily,  clad.  As  he  took  his  seat 
and  proceeded  to  untie  a  roll  of  papers, 
Hazeldean  was  struck  with  a  certain  con- 
trolled alertness  of  countenance  and  gesture. 
He  experienced  an  instant  conviction  that 
here  was  a  man  not  in  the  same  class  with 
the  average  client.  When  the  stranger 
spoke,  his  low,  incisive  voice,  his  diction, 
spare  but  trenchant,  lent  authority  to  his 
words.  The  total  impression  was  one  of 
balance  and  significance. 

"My  name  is  Hiram  Lane,"  he  stated. 
"I  wish  to  patent  a  certain  contrivance,  a 
link  in  the  sequence  that  will  eventually 
lead  to  aviation  as  distinguished  from 
ballooning." 

There  was  no  apology  in  Lane's  attitude, 
no  defiance.  He  was  sure  of  himself  and 
indifferent  to  criticism.  And  something  of 
his  quiet  confidence  subdued  the  rising  tu- 
mult of  Hazeldean's  brain,  and  enabled  him 
to  reply  with  answering  composure,  "It's 
something  I  have  always  believed  in." 

"Good,"  said  Hiram  Lane.  "Then  let 's 
get  to  work." 

For  an  hour  the  two  men  busied  them- 
selves with  drawings  and  blue-prints,  with 


Ships  in  the  Air.  353 

technical  terms  and  scientific  computations. 
Hazeldean's  chief  entered,  saw  that  he  was 
in  good  vein,  and  refrained  from  inter- 
fering. Other  clerks  arrived  and  got  to 
work,  other  clients  came  and  went,  and 
Hazeldean  and  Hiram  Lane  were  still  at 
it. 

At  last  the  latter  glanced  at  the  office- 
clock,  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  rolled  up  his 
papers,  with  the  same  curt  energy  that, 
characterized  all  his  processes,  mental  or 
otherwise. 

"Time's  up,"  he  declared.  "Shall  you 
be  here  at  the  same  hour  to-morrow?" 

"Yes,"  said  Hazeldean,  with  like  brevity, 
which  betrayed  nothing  of  the  tumult  that 
was  rising  again.  And,  an  instant  later, 
his  client's  heels  went  ringing  down  the 
corridor. 

Lane  came  again  next  morning,  and  after 
that  at  irregular  intervals,  always  leaving 
at  the  same  hour.  He  was  evidently  not 
master  of  his  own  time.  Hazeldean  was 
conscious  of  no  curiosity  about  him,  per- 
sonally. There  were  so  many  people  whose 
business  and  social  status  was  all  there  was 
to  them,  that  he  had  not  the  slightest  wish 
to  label  and  catalogue  a  shining  exception 
23 


352  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

looked  about  forty,  and  was  soberly,  not 
to  say  shabbily,  clad.  As  he  took  his  seat 
and  proceeded  to  untie  a  roll  of  papers, 
Hazeldean  was  struck  with  a  certain  con- 
trolled alertness  of  countenance  and  gesture. 
He  experienced  an  instant  conviction  that 
here  was  a  man  not  in  the  same  class  with 
the  average  client.  When  the  stranger 
spoke,  his  low,  incisive  voice,  his  diction, 
spare  but  trenchant,  lent  authority  to  his 
words.  The  total  impression  was  one  of 
balance  and  significance. 

"My  name  is  Hiram  Lane,"  he  stated. 
11 1  wish  to  patent  a  certain  contrivance,  a 
link  in  the  sequence  that  will  eventually 
lead  to  aviation  as  distinguished  from 
ballooning." 

There  was  no  apology  in  Lane's  attitude, 
no  defiance.  He  was  sure  of  himself  and 
indifferent  to  criticism.  And  something  of 
his  quiet  confidence  subdued  the  rising  tu- 
mult of  Hazeldean's  brain,  and  enabled  him 
to  reply  with  answering  composure,  "It's 
something  I  have  always  believed  in." 

"Good,"  said  Hiram  Lane.  "Then  let 's 
get  to  work. ' ' 

For  an  hour  the  two  men  busied  them- 
selves with  drawings  and  blue-prints,  with 


Ships  in  the  Air.  353 

technical  terms  and  scientific  computations. 
Hazeldean's  chief  entered,  saw  that  he  was 
in  good  vein,  and  refrained  from  inter- 
fering. Other  clerks  arrived  and  got  to 
work,  other  clients  came  and  went,  and 
Hazeldean  and  Hiram  Lane  were  still  at 
it. 

At  last  the  latter  glanced  at  the  office- 
clock,  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  rolled  up  his 
papers,  with  the  same  curt  energy  that, 
characterized  all  his  processes,  mental  or 
otherwise. 

"Time's  up,"  he  declared.  "Shall  you 
be  here  at  the  same  hour  to-morrow?" 

"Yes,"  said  Hazeldean,  with  like  brevity, 
which  betrayed  nothing  of  the  tumult  that 
was  rising  again.  And,  an  instant  later, 
his  client's  heels  went  ringing  down  the 
corridor.  ^ 

Lane  came  again  next  morning,  and  after 
that  at  irregular  intervals,  always  leaving 
at  the  same  hour.  He  was  evidently  not 
master  of  his  own  time.  Hazeldean  was 
conscious  of  no  curiosity  about  him,  per- 
sonally. There  were  so  many  people  whose 
business  and  social  status  was  all  there  was 
to  them,  that  he  had  not  the  slightest  wish 
to  label  and  catalogue  a  shining  exception 

23 


354  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

like  this.     He  only  thanked  his  stars  that 
the  man  had  crossed  his  path. 

And  it  came  about  that  as  day  by  day 
his  faith  in  Hiram  Lane's  enterprise  grew, 
Hazeldean's  faith  in  himself  grew  also.  He 
had  not  been  an  addle-pated  visionary, 
after  all,  he  told  himself  to-night;  his  idea 
had  been  sound.  That  he  had  lacked  the 
skill,  the  originality,  to  put  it  into  execution, 
that  was  a  mere  detail,  which  in  no  way 
affected  the  issue  at  stake.  And  besides, 
there  were  other  ways  of  furthering  a  good 
cause  than  by  actual  leadership .  We  could  n't 
all  be  captains,  we  could  n't  all  be  fighting 
men,  even.  But — and  suddenly  his  mind 
was  crossed  by  the  familiar  phrase,  "  sinews 
of  war."  He  halted,  there  in  the  path, 
as  if  his  name  had  been  called.  Sinews  of 
war!  Money!  That  money  which  he  had 
despised,  because  Hester  would  none  of  it,— 
the  money  that  had  come  to  him  by  a  caprice 
of  fortune.  Why,  he  was  an  able-bodied 
man,  a  competent  bread-winner!  He  was 
as  capable  as  his  brothers  of  earning  his 
own  living.  What  should  he  want  of  a 
fortune?  And  with  a  firm  step,  he  started 
off  again,  headed  now  for  his  goal,  in  more 
senses  than  one. 


Ships  in  the  Air.  355 

The  stars  were  gathering  fast.  How 
quietly,  almost  imperceptibly,  they  ap- 
peared,— as  quietly  as  a  thought  does.  And 
yet,  so  constant  were  they  in  that  flight  of 
theirs,  that  by  them  and  by  them  alone  the 
mariner  was  safe  to  steer  his  course.  Well, 
here  was  a  thought  to  steer  by,  and  what  a 
thought!  Was  ever  such  a  use  found  for 
money?  Some  folks  bought  stocks  and 
bonds  with  theirs,  and  vegetated  on  the 
income.  How  stupid  to  do  a  thing  like 
that  with  it! 

Again  he  glanced  skyward,  where  the 
constellations  were  already  standing  out  in 
their  ancient  order.  There  was  the  moon, 
too,  not  yet  at  the  full,  just  sailing  clear  of  the 
housetops.  And  here  was  his  grandmother's 
gate.  He  wished  he  had  not  timed  his 
visit  when  Hester  was  almost  sure  to  be 
there.  She  was  tantalizing,  distracting.  He 
could  n't  keep  his  wits  about  him  when  she 
was  by ;  he  was  too  busy  feeling  things.  Un- 
comfortable things,  too.  In  some  moods  the 
very  sight  of  her,  the  sound  of  her  voice,  was 
like  a  stab.  What  had  a  man  with  a  good, 
working  thought  in  his  head  to  do  with 
feelings,  anyway?  No,  he  did  n't  want  to 
see  Hester  to-night. 


356  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

And  yet,  when  presently  he  stood  on  the 
threshold  of  the  little  sitting-room,  and  she 
was  not  there,  a  worse  stab  caught  him  than 
the  sight  of  her  could  have  dealt.  Perhaps 
Old  Lady  Pratt  sensed  his  discomfiture, 
though  he  got  out  his  birthday  congratula- 
tions very  creditably;  for,— 

" Hester  's  been  and  gone,"  she  remarked, 
as  he  took  Aunt  Betsy's  hand,  which  felt 
like  a  pad  of  dough  after  his  grandmother's 
claw-like  grip. 

"Has  she?"  he  echoed  vaguely. 

"Yes;  she  has.     You  're  too  late." 

He  knew  better  than  to  protest  that  he 
had  come  to  see  his  grandmother.  In  face 
of  those  sharp  eyes,  indeed,  he  could  not  even 
in  his  own  mind  keep  up  the  little  fiction. 
So  he  let  his  case  go  by  default. 

"Do  you  calc'late  to  go  through  life  jest 
too  late?"  she  persisted,  with  considerable 
animus. 

"Too  late  or — too  early, "  he  amended,  try- 
ing, not  very  successfully,  to  force  his  mind 
back  from  Hester  to  that  other  matter  which 
required  a  long  future  to  its  unfolding. 

He  had  seated  himself  and,  picking  up 
an  unwieldy  photograph  album,  he  chanced 
upon  a  recent  libel  on  his  grandmother, 


Ships  in  the  Air.  357 

wherein  her  keen  physiognomy  had  been  so 
ruthlessly  denuded  of  the  smallest  modicum 
of  character  that  he  felt  himself  for  once 
almost  a  match  for  her.  Her  actual  voice, 
however,  dispelled  that  pleasing  illusion. 

"Have  you  given  her  up?"  she  inquired. 

"  She  has  given  me  up. " 

"What  makes  you  let  her?" 

"I  've  asked  her  twice,"  he  smouldered. 
"If  I  keep  on  nagging  her,  she  '11  get  to  hate 


me." 


"Well,"  was  the  crisp  rejoinder,  "I  ain't 
so  sure  but  that  'd  be  a  step  in  the  right 
direction."  And,  shrewdly  studying  the 
young  man's  countenance,  she  fell  to  wishing 
that  there  were  more  of  the  stout  fibre  of 
resistance  in  his  composition,  against  which 
a  robust  hate  might  brace  itself. 

Old  Lady  Pratt  desired  this  match  ar- 
dently. She  felt  sure  it  would  be  the  making 
of  her  grandson,  and  equally  sure  that  all 
the  girl  needed  was  to  be  waked  up  about 
him.  Hester  had  certainly  begun  by  liking 
him;  indeed,  no  one  could  be  quite  indifferent 
to  Hazeldean  at  first  blush.  He  was  too 
individual  for  that,  though  his  natural 
advantages  were,  to  his  grandmother's  think- 
ing, disastrously  nullified  in  the  general 


358  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

scheme  of  him.  Even  as  his  good  looks  were 
too  frequently  lost  in  a  slack  bearing  and  a 
tendency  to  stare  at  nothing,  so  his  undeni- 
able intelligence  had  hitherto  missed  fire. 
His  ideas  were  rarely  driven  home.  Morally, 
too,  he  lacked  a  healthy  assert iveness.  He 
could  attract,  but  failed  to  hold,  and  Old 
Lady  Pratt  had  watched,  and  perfectly 
understood,  the  flickering  out  of  Hester's 
interest.  A  girl  of  her  calibre  might  well 
demand  something  more  definite  to  tie  to 
than  a  pleasant  disposition  and  a  glancing 
intelligence. 

That  intelligence,  however,  had  not  missed 
the  point  of  the  old  lady's  remark. 

"Yes,"  Hazeldean  pondered,  "  'twere 
something  to  be  level  to  her  hate." 

"Hm!  That's  poetry,  I  suppose,"  she 
scoffed,  while  her  knitting-needles  clicked 
and  glinted  a  brisk  protest;  for  Old  Lady 
Pratt,  like  many  of  her  contemporaries, 
kept  her  Sabbath  from  sundown  to  sundown. 
"Now,  what  you  need  to  cultivate  is  prose." 

"There  's  plenty  of  it  lying  round  loose," 
he  returned  dully. 

"So  there's  plenty  of  earth  lyin'  round 
loose,"  was  the  quick  retort;  "but  'taint 
goin'  to  do  you  any  good  unless  you  git  your 


Ships  in  the  Air.  359 

own  plot  'n'  till  it.  What  are  you  aimin'  to 
do  with  all  that  money  o'  yours?"  she 
inquired  abruptly. 

The  question  so  suddenly  propounded 
was  a  challenge,  and  he  rose  to  it,  clean 
quit  of  his  preoccupation.  His  thought  was 
there,  that  thought  that  he  was  to  steer  by. 
The  glance  that  met  his  grandmother's 
inquiry  was  not  the  familiar  one  of  facile 
enthusiasm.  It  was  definite, — aggressive. 
As  his  interlocutor  put  it  to  herself,  there 
was  backbone  in  his  eye.  And  backbone, 
in  any  locality,  was  Old  Lady  Pratt's 
fetish. 

"I'm  thinking  of  turning  it  into  sinews 
of  war,"  he  replied,  with  quiet  emphasis. 

Yes;  he  looked  self-sufficient,  and  for  the 
first  time  in  his  grandmother's  recollection. 
Supposing  he  did  do  something  rash  with  his 
money,  so  he  came  out  a  man!  Old  Lady 
Pratt  was  no  despiser  of  property;  she  had 
lived  too  long  for  that!  But  it  was  not  her 
fetish.  And  so,  in  deference  to  the  thing 
that  was  her  fetish,  namely,  character,  ex- 
pressed in  terms  of  backbone,  she  said,  very 
deliberately : 

"Well,  Hazeldean,  the  money 's  yours, 
'n'  it  '11  do  you  good  to  live  up  to  that.  You 


360  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

kin  tell  'em  I  said  so,  if  you  're  a  mind  to," 
she  added,  with  a  twinkle. 

The  look  of  self-sufficiency  intensified. 
He  sprang  to  his  feet,  and,  seizing  the  wiry 
little  hand,  "  Grandmother, "  he  declared. 
"You  're  the  only  one  of  them  all  that  can 
see  round  a  corner!" 

"P'raps  that's  because  I've  turned  so 
many  on  'em, "  she  suggested.  "The  eighty- 
ninth  to-day,  Hazeldean." 

"And  you  're  looking  ten  years  younger 
than  Aunt  Betsy,  this  very  minute,"  he 
averred,  warmly. 

"I  know  it,"  she  admitted,  with  a  little 
smirk  of  gratified  vanity.  Then,  moved 
to  quick  compunction, — "Poor  Betsy! 
P'raps  I  'd  oughter  've  let  her  wear  a  false 
front,  after  all!" 

When,  a  few  minutes  later,  Hazeldean 
passed  out  into  Green  Street,  which  lay 
before  him,  a  network  of  shifting  shadows, 
there  was  Hester  Burdick,  still  abroad,  a  little 
Scotch-plaid  shawl  thrown  over  her  head, 
her  face  upturned  in  the  moonlight.  He 
stood  an  instant,  watching  her  approach. 
What  was  that  his  grandmother  had  said 
about  making  the  girl  hate  him?  It  might 
be  a  step  in  the  right  direction?  Well,  so  it 


Ships  in  the  Air.  361 

would  be, — in  the  direction  of  getting  rid, 
once  for  all,  of  that  foolish,  senseless  hanker- 
ing that  kept  him  mooning  around,  wher- 
ever and  whenever  she  might  be  looked 
for.  He  had  not  paid  her  an  honest 
call  in  a  month  now.  But  he  had  been 
scheming  to  meet  her,  and  telling  himself 
that  he  hoped  she  would  not  be  there. 
Well,  there  should  be  no  more  of  that.  He 
would  confront  her  now,  squarely  and  fairly, 
and  fairly  and  squarely  he  would  ask  her 
again,  and  make  an  end  of  this  miserable 
shilly-shallying . 

He  met  her,  just  as  she  reached  the  Baxter 
gate. 

"I've  been  taking  a  roundabout  way 
home  from  your  grandmother's,"  she  volun- 
teered; "It  was  such  a  lovely  evening." 

"Yes;  it 's  a  great  evening!"  and,  placing 
his  hand  on  the  gate,  he  held  it  firmly  closed. 

"But  I'm  just  going  in,"  said  Hester, 
waiting  for  him  to  make  way  for  her. 

"So  was  I.  But  I  find  I  like  it  better 
outside." 

"As  you  please.  But  I  'm  afraid  you  '11 
have  to  let  me  pass. " 

"I've  been  letting  you  pass  for  ages," 
he  averred  doggedly.  "This  is  a  hold-up." 


362  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

"Really!'*  with  an  instinct  to  run  for 
cover.  "Then  why  not  come  inside?" 

"Not  I.  There  are  folks  in  there.  But 
I  '11  come  as  far  as  the  piazza,  if  you  '11  play 
fair." 

"But  I'm  not  playing." 

"Nor  I!" 

She  perceived  that  he  was  not  to  be  put 
off. 

"Very  well;  then  come,"  she  said  re- 
signedly; "it 's  silly  to  stand  out  here  talking 
riddles." 

He  knew  that  he  could  trust  her,  and  he 
opened  the  gate.  As  they  approached  the 
steps  he  laid  a  detaining  hand  on  her 
sleeve. 

"Hester!" 

"Ah,  don't!"  she  protested,  hurrying  up 
the  steps.  He  was  not  in  the  habit  of 
calling  her  by  her  Christian  name,  but  that 
was  not  what  she  minded. 

They  were  standing  on  the  piazza  now,  in 
a  sort  of  cat's-cradle  of  trellised  moonlight. 

"Hester!"  he  implored. 

She  stiffened. 

"It's  no  good,  you  know.  I  thought 
you  understood  that." 

He  pulled  himself  up. 


Ships  in  the  Air.  363 

"I  did,  in  a  way;  but  I  wanted  to  make 


sure." 


She  flushed  a  bit. 

"I  11  make  an  affidavit  if  you  wish,"  she 
proffered,  not  without  a  touch  of  pique. 

"No ;  I  'm  willing  to  take  your  word  for  it. " 

He  loved  her  and  craved  her,  inappeasably ; 
yet,  in  the  very  moment  of  denial,  he  was 
conscious  of  a  curious  satisfaction.  Steel 
had  struck  steel  between  them  for  the  first 
time ;  the  mere  clash  of  it  was  tonic. 

"Did  you  stop  me  expressly  to  say  that?" 
she  asked,  distantly.  For,  in  truth,  his 
manner  was  anything  but  flattering. 

He  did  not  answer  at  once.  He  was 
thinking  how  well  she  looked  with  that  little 
square  of  shawl  over  her  head.  For  all  her 
haughty  air  (she  had  never  found  it  worth 
while  to  be  haughty  with  him  before),  that 
little  shawl  made  her  look  so  human,  so 
lovable!  The  kind  of  head-gear  it  was  that 
was  worn  by  the  wives  of  laboring  men, — 
those  plain  women  that  just  love  a  man 
without  thinking,  because  they  can't  help 
it,  and  don't  want  to.  He  thought  that  if 
he  could  snatch  that  little  shawl  from  her 
head,  and  button  it  in  under  his  coat,  he 
might  make  that  do. 


364  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

Perhaps  he  looked  predatory,  for,  with 
a  half-distrustful  air,  she  edged  toward  the 
door. 

"I  really  must  go  in,"  she  said. 

At  that,  he  threw  off  his  preoccupation. 

"Then  it 's  quite  settled?"  he  asked;  and 
he  forced  himself  to  ask  it  quietly. 

"Quite.  I  'm  glad  you  find  it  such  a 
relief." 

The  shawl  had  slid  to  her  shoulders,  but 
she  did  not  notice. 

"It  is — an  immense  relief";  and  he  eyed 
the  shawl,  that  was  slipping,  slipping, 
down  her  shoulders.  "There  's  something 
I  Ve  got  to  do  and" — with  a  swift  movement 
he  caught  the  shawl  as  it  fell — "and  now 
I  have  a  free  hand.  Good-night." 

With  a  bound,  he  was  at  the  foot  of  the 
steps,  while  she  stood  above  him  in  the  clear 
moonlight,  reaching  out  an  imperious  hand. 

"Give  me  my  shawl!"  she  commanded. 

But  from  somewhere  off  there  in  the  dark 
came  the  preposterous  answer,  "I  consider 
it  mine! "  And  he  was  gone. 

"Well,  I  never!"  she  gasped,  as,  with 
tingling  nerves  and  heightened  color,  she 
turned  and  went  into  the  house. 

Hester  Bur  dick  had  been  loved  before; 


Ships  in  the  Air.  365 

she  had  once,  in  an  elemental  moment,  and 
to  her  undying  chagrin,  been  kissed.  But 
never  before  had  she  been  robbed.  It  was 
detestable — she  was  sure  of  that — but  it 
was  a  sensation.  It  waked  her  up.  Ah, 
wise  Old  Lady  Pratt! 

And  Hazeldean  strode  along  homeward, 
the  little  shawl  buttoned  tight  in  under  his 
coat,  literally  hugging  himself  over  his  ill- 
gotten  booty. 

Yet,  arrived  at  last  in  his  own  room,  which 
was  squared  off  with  patches  of  moonlight, 
he  pulled  out  the  little  shawl  and  regarded 
it  critically.  After  all,  it  was  nothing  but 
a  shawl!  He  was  afraid  he  shouldn't  be 
able  to  make  it  "do,"  after  all.  With  a 
rueful  grimace,  he  tossed  it  upon  his  desk, 
which  stood  by  one  of  the  moonlit  windows, 
and  turned  te^  light  the  gas.  The  match- 
box had  been  misplaced.  Glancing  about 
in  search  of  it,  his  eye  fell  upon  that  bit  of 
Scotch-plaid,  which  lay  in  a  round  heap,  a 
small  break  in  its  contour  suggesting  that  it 
had  once  framed  a  face. 

With  a  choking  sensation  of  fierce  pain, 
he  dropped  into  the  chair  by  the  desk  and, 
gathering  the  soft  folds  in  his  hands,  buried 
his  face  in  them.  So  he  remained  for  several 


366  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

minutes,  motionless.  But  when,  at  sound 
of  the  supper-bell,  he  raised  his  head,  his 
features  were  set  in  firm  lines,  and  the  moon, 
at  gaze,  found  nothing  there  to  gratify  its 
romantic  predilections. 

Those  firm  lines  were  already  beginning 
to  feel  very  much  at  home  in  Hazeldean's 
mobile  countenance  when,  the  following 
Saturday,  he  made  his  offer  to  Hiram  Lane. 
He  had  thought  the  matter  out  very  soberly, 
and  the  proposition  was  couched  in  terms 
of  business  commonplace.  If  the  young 
capitalist  had  never  before  experienced  quite 
the  sense  of  exultation  that  stirred  his 
blood  as  he  made  the  offer,  neither  had 
he  ever  been  quite  so  completely  master  of 
himself. 

"You  know  what  you  are  about?"  Lane 
had  demurred.  "You  know  the  chances 
of  failure?" 

"Yes." 

"That  it  must  be  a  matter  of  'years  at 
best?  That  you  and  I  may  not  live  to 
see  the  end?" 

"Yes;  I  know." 

They  were  in  Lane's  lodging,  a  great  barn 
of  a  room  in  a  cheap  suburb,  cluttered  badly 
with  grotesque  contraptions  of  wire  and 


Ships  in  the  Air.  367 

cane,  of  canvas  and  oiled  silk.  A  very  fair 
apology  for  a  chemist's  laboratory,  ranged 
on  rough  shelves  in  one  corner,  lent  an  air 
of  scientific  reality  to  the  establishment, 
further  emphasized  by  various  workman-like 
drawings  and  tabulations  spread  out  upon 
a  deal  table.  But  in  all  the  room  was  no 
faintest  suggestion  of  creature  comfort. 

Lane  was  seated  on  a  high  stool,  nursing 
his  knee,  and  eying  his  pet  model, — a  crude 
but  extremely  ingenious  affair,  no  more 
resembling  the  modern  "flyer,"  to  be  sure, 
than  the  formless  embryo  resembles  the 
plant  in  full  flower.  And  yet — the  germ 
was  there,  and  both  men  knew  it. 

"It's  a  one-sided  sort  of  partnership," 
Lane  observed.  "You  11  never  see  your 
money  again;  you  may  never  see  any  results 
at  all.  But — the  fact  is,  you  're  the  only 
chap  I  've  ever  run  across,  who  had  the 
gumption  to  catch  on,  and — I  think  you  're 
entitled  to  lend  a  hand." 

True  fanatic  that  he  was,  the  man  honestly 
believed  himself  to  be  conferring  a  favor; 
wherein  Hazeldean,  in  the  magnanimity  of 
his  soul,  fully  concurred. 

"Very  well,"  he  said.  "We'll  call  it 
a  partnership,  and  some  day— 


368  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

"Some  day,  we'll  show  'em  the  way  to 
Mars!" 

With  that,  Lane  jumped  down  off  his 
stool,  wrung  Hazeldean 's  hand,  severely 
but  briefly,  and  then  began,  with  technical 
exactitude,  elucidating  the  advantage  of  a 
slight  readjustment  of  the  new  model  which 
he  was  contemplating.  Neither  of  them 
dwelt  further  upon  the  financial  aspects  of 
the  case,  until  just  as  Hazeldean  was  leav- 
ing, when  he  said,  "It's  understood  then 
that  you  draw  upon  the  First  National,  as 
required,  to  that  amount. " 

"Yes,"  Lane  agreed;  adding,  with  a 
strong  note  of  feeling,  "and  I  draw  upon 
you,  personally,  for  something  that  no 
money  could  buy." 

A  close  hand-grip  sealed  the  bond,  and 
Hazeldean,  walking  home  over  the  long 
bridge,  carried  with  him  the  sensation  of 
that  hand-grip,  and  felt  that  here,  too,  was 
something  that  no  money  could  buy. 

He  was  walking,  shoulders  squared,  head 
well  set  back,  as  he  had  recently  contracted 
the  habit  of  doing.  The  keen  autumn  air, 
the  metallic  blue  of  the  sky,  the  in- 
coming tide,  the  brimming  river-banks,  all 
conspired  to  heighten  that  sense  of  vigor 


Hazeldean 

Presently  his  attention  was  arrested  by  a  flock  of  gulls, 
flecking  the  cold,  dark  bosom  of  the  stream. 


•;:,•';       M  j 


Ships  in  the  Air.  369 

and  well-being  that   follows   upon   decisive 
action. 

Presently  his  attention  was  arrested  by 
a  flock  of  gulls,  flecking  the  cold,  dark 
bosom  of  the  stream.  They  were  in  restless 
motion,  and  he  watched  them  with  kindling 
interest.  Yes,  they  were  rising,  see!  and 
circling  in  the  sunshine,  now  in  light,  now  in 
shadow,  as  they  wheeled  and  turned.  What 
more  natural  than  that  flight?  What  more 
glorious?  They  rose  higher,  and  turned 
up-stream.  As  they  flew  directly  over  his 
head,  his  eye,  following  them,  was  caught 
by  a  figure  on  the  other  side  the  bridge.  It 
was  Hester  Bur  dick,  out  for  her  favorite 
walk.  He  lifted  his  hat,  and  she  inclined 
her  head,  coldly.  The^had  not  met  since 
the  robbery.  The  sight  of  her,  walking 
there  in  the  common  daylight,  the  chill  of 
her  indifferent  salutation,  brought  him  back 
from  his  flight  of  fancy  with  a  dull  reaction. 
What  business  had  he  with  that  shawl  of  hers? 
How  could  a  grown  man  have  been  guilty 
of  such  tomfoolery!  The  thing  must  be 
returned,  of  course.  "Now  I  have  a  free 
hand,"  he  had  said.  Well,  here  was  the 
test.  Only — he  would  not  brave  it  yet; 
not  until  Lane  had  taken  the  preliminary 
24 


370  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

steps  toward  cutting  loose  from  other  work, 
and  beginning  operations  on  a  larger  scale, 
thereby  clinching  the  contract,  and  putting 
the  terms  of  it  beyond  discussion. 

And  during  that  interval  Hazeldean's 
sense  of  personal  efficiency  expanded  and 
took  distinct  shape.  It  found  expression 
most  of  all  in  the  handling  of  his  daily  work. 
He  felt  the  vital  necessity  of  vindicating 
his  action  before  the  bar  of  his  own  judg- 
ment at  least,  and  this  could  be  done  in  but 
one  way:  by  approving  himself  independent 
of  those  artificial  props  which  he  had  so 
cavalierly  rejected.  In  the  process,  he  found 
himself  acquiring  a  sense  of  mastery,  not 
only  of  business  detail,  but  of  his  own 
powers,  his  own  grip  on  life.  He  spent  less 
time  than  heretofore  with  Lane;  he  did  not 
greatly  concern  himself  with  the  inventor's 
doings.  All  such  matters  were  delegated 
once  for  all  to  the  acknowledged  expert. 
His  own  job  was  to  establish  himself  in  his 
own  line. 

And  at  last,  when  he  felt  that  he  had  the 
situation  well  in  hand,  he  took  the  little 
shawl  back  to  its  owner,  speculating  as  he 
did  so  upon  the  chances  of  her  consenting 
to  see  him. 


Ships  in  the  Air.  371 

She  had  no  choice  as  to  that,  for  she  opened 
the  door  herself.  At  sight  of  him  her  coun- 
tenance changed,  and  she  did  not  invite  him 
to  enter. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  ask  me  in?"  he 
inquired.  The  question  sounded  more  a 
demand  than  an  entreaty. 

"My  cousins  are  playing  cards  in  the 
parlor,"  she  temporized. 

"But  there's  the  dining-room." 

He  was  struck  with  admiration  of  his  own 
hardihood. 

"I  am  correcting  compositions  in  there," 
she  objected. 

But  she  stepped  aside,  and  gave  him 
grudging  admittance.  The  parlor  door  stood 
open,  and  they  could  see  the  players,  studying 
their  hands  in  deep  absorption. 

"I  pass,"  quoth  a  voice  with  a  grievance. 
*  "Order  it  up,"  Dr.  Baxter  announced. 
And  the  game  went  on. 

They  seated  themselves  on  opposite  sides 
of  the  dining- table,  which  was  covered  with 
a  red-checked  cloth  on  which  were  spread 
her  papers  and  a  blue  pencil.  The  light 
from  the  chandelier,  touching  her  hair  to 
bronze,  left  the  features  somewhat  in  shadow, 
head  and  shoulders  silhouetted  against  a 


372  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

background  of  turkey-red  curtains.  The 
chiaroscuro  of  the  total  effect  was  subtly 
disquieting,  so  at  variance  did  it  seem  with 
the  girl's  singularly  open,  straightforward 
nature.  Happily,  however,  his  errand  was 
a  definite  one;  he  need  have  no  traffic  with 
moods  and  tenses. 

"I  have  brought  you  back  your  shawl," 
he  announced,  without  preamble,  drawing 
from  his  pocket  a  small  parcel,  carefully 
wrapped  in  tissue  paper.  He  had  not 
smoked  a  pipe  in  his  own  room  for  a  week 
past,  lest  the  odor  should  contaminate  those 
sacred  folds — a  needless  sacrifice,  by  the  way, 
since,  truth  to  tell,  Hester  rather  particularly 
liked  tobacco-smoke. 

"You  are  quite  sure  you  are  through 
with  it?"  she  inquired,  with  a  pardonable 
indulgence  in  satire. 

"  Not  exactly  that,  but  things  have  changed 
since  I — annexed  it.  I  should  n't  feel  justi- 
fied in  keeping  it  any  longer. " 

"  Indeed!" 

"No;  I  haven't  the  right  even  to  think 
of  you  any  more.  I  've  burned  my  bridges." 

"And  you  can't  swim?" 

The  little  fling  sounded  just  a  trifle  forced. 

"Not    that    particular    stream.     But" — 


Ships  in  the  Air.  373 

with  a  sudden  flash— "  I  may  come  flying 
across,  one  of  these  days." 

11  So,  you  Ve  gone  back  to  that,  have  you?" 

No,  Hester  was  not  herself  to-night.  Her 
speech,  like  her  face,  was  in  chiaroscuro. 

"In  a  sense,  yes.  But  not  on  my  own 
account." 

"Riddles  again!" 

And,  upon  that,  she  fell  to  tracing  blue 
arabesques  on  a  stray  half -sheet. 

"Not  at  all.  It 's  plain  as  a  pike-staff. 
A  man  I  know  has  the  brains,  and  the 
originality,  and  the  persistence  and  the 
self-abnegation,  every  quality,  in  fact,  except 
capital." 

"Ah!"  She  glanced  up  quickly,  while 
the  careful  arabesques^  went  askew.  "And 
you?" 

"I  am  going  to  supply  that." 

Since  it  was  a  kind  of  general  obloquy 
that  he  was  inviting,  he  might  as  well  face 
the  music  here  and  now. 

"Your  uncle's  legacy?"  she  inquired,  in 
a  tone  that  was  studiously  non-committal. 

"Yes." 

"All  of  it?" 

"As  much  of  it  as  he  may  need." 

"And  you  call  that  burning  your  bridges?" 


374  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

"Most  assuredly. " 

"What  bridges?" 

"The  bridges  that  don't  lead  anywhere. 
The  bridges  that  ought  to  lead  to"— he 
looked  her  full  in  the  face — "to  you!" 

"Ah!"  she  breathed  again.  "Won't  you 
tell  me  a  little  more  about  the  man  you  've 
burned  your  bridges  for?" 

"I  have  n't  burned  them  for  a  man;  I  've 
burned  them  for  an  idea." 

"Tell  me  about  the  idea." 

And  Hazeldean  told  her,  simply  and  con- 
cisely, without  exaggeration,  about  the  great 
idea  to  which  he  had  pledged  a  fortune.  He 
talked  so  well  that  she  could  comprehend 
the  gist  of  his  argument,  and  he  perceived 
the  clearness  of  her  comprehension. 

"It  may  be  many  years,"  he  admitted. 
"We  may  none  of  us  live  to  see  it.  But  some 
day,  some  day,  the  thing  will  be  done,  and 
— every  little  helps. " 

"  Does  any  one  know,  any  one  but  me?  " 

"Nobody,  yet.  But,  of  course,  I  shall  be 
obliged  to  tell  my  folks.  It  will  be  pretty 
rough  on  them,  I'm  afraid." 

"Rough  on  them?  They  couldn't  be  so 
narrow!"  She  had  pushed  back  her  chair. 
Her  face  was  plainly  visible  now ;  her  speech 


Ships  in  the  Air.  375 

wholly  spontaneous.  "They  must  see,  they 
must  feel — "  But  here  she  put  sudden 
compulsion  on  herself,  and  fell  silent. 

" Hester!"  he  cried,  leaning  forward  across 
the  table.  "  You  can  see  it  that  way?  You 
can  feel  with  me  about  it?  And  yet — " 
He  sprang  to  his  feet  with  an  impatient 
movement. 

"And  yet?"  she  echoed,  unfolding  the 
shawl  from  its  tissue  wrappings,  and  ab- 
sently resting  her  cheek  against  it. 

He  was  not  standing  the  test,  and  he 
knew  it.  With  a  sense  of  wrenching  himself 
free,  he  said  abruptly,  "I  11  go  now,  and 
leave  you  to  correct  compositions  in  peace 
to  the  end  of  the  chapter,  on  one  condition: 
that  you  come  out  on^the  piazza,  and  give 
me  absolution,  just  where  it  happened.  I  '11 
go,  honor  bright,  if  you  '11  do  that." 

"Well,  if  you  offer  such  an  inducement," 
she  jested,  tossing  the  little  shawl  over  her 
head,  in  token  perhaps  of  amnesty,  as 
together  they  passed  out  into  the  chill 
evening  air. 

There  was  only  starlight  to-night;  only 
the  stars  in  their  courses  looked  down  upon 
that  provocative  little  shawl.  He  almost 
wished  she  had  n't  thrown  it  over  her  head ; 


376  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

that  little  shawl  that  made  her  look  so 
human,  so  lovable,  so  like  those  plain  women 
who  loved  a  man  without  thinking,  because 
they  could  n't  help  themselves. 

"It's  a  big  good-bye  for  me,"  he  was 
saying,  with  a  stricture  at  his  throat  that 
really  hurt. 

"On  account  of  the  burned  bridges?"  she 
queried,  under  her  breath. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  firmly  and  finally;  "on 
account  of  the  burned  bridges."  And  he 
took  her  hand  in  parting. 

"I'm  glad  you've  burned  them,"  she 
observed,  striving  hard  for  the  purely  con- 
versational tone.  "I  always  hated  that 
money  of  yours. " 

"Hated  it?" 

"Yes,  and  the  things  you  said  about  it, 
and  about — us.  They  sounded  such  castles 
in  the  air." 

The  shawl  had  fallen  back  from  her  head, 
and  her  face  showed  clear  and  frank  in  the 
starlight.  There  was  a  dawning  sweetness 
in  it,  too,  a  sweetness  that  Hazeldean  had 
divined  from  the  very  first,  though  never 
until  that  hour  had  his  eyes  beheld  it.  But 
he  kept  himself  steadily  to  the  issue  in 
hand. 


Ships  in  the  Air.  377 

"And  ships  in  the  air?"  he  urged.  "You 
would  rather  hear  talk  of  them?'1 

"Yes;  only — it 's  not  the  talk,  either. 
It's  what  you  've  done.  It's  so — real!" 

He  had  both  her  hands  now,  and  his  eyes 
held  hers. 

"Hester!"  It  was  as  if  he  were  conjuring 
her  to  a  confession  of  faith;  "Hester!  You 
do  believe,  you  really  do  believe — in  it  all?" 

And  she  answered  quietly,  almost  solemnly, 
yet  with  that  in  her  voice  which  was  a 
confession  ^of  more,  far  more,  than  faith: 

"Yes,  I  do  believe  that  we  shall  live  to 
see  your  ships  in  the  air  come  true, — you 
and  1 11' 


XL 
THE  PASSING  OF  BEN. 

ON  the  day  Martha  died,  Ben  laughed. 
It  was  not  the  harsh  outbreak  of 
a  man  distraught  with  grief;  it  was 
just  his  own   quiet,  deep-throated  chuckle. 
And   Ben  and   Martha  had  been  a  united 
pair. 

"Why,  father,"  his  daughter  Mattie  in- 
quired, anxiously.  "Aren't  you  feeling 
well?" 

"Oh,  yes;  I  'm  feelin*  well  enough, — for 
an  old  man ;  but  not  so  well 's  your  mother, 
Mattie.  She  's  feelin'  better  'n  she  's  felt 
for  a  long  while,  I  '11  be  bound." 

"But  what  made  you  laugh,  dear?  You 
laughed  just  now,  you  know." 

"Oh,  I  was  thinkin'  of  somethin'  she 
said  to  me  the  day  we  got  engaged.  That 
was  nigh  upon  fifty  year  ago,  Mattie." 
And  this  time  the  old  man  heaved  a  pro- 
found sigh. 

378 


The  Passing  of  Ben.  '  379 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Mattie,  very  gently. 
"But  if  I  were  you,  I  would  n't  do  it  again. 
Folks  might  misunderstand." 

"Your  mother  ain't  goin'  to  misunder- 
stand. Should  n't  wonder  if  she  was 
laughin',  too.  The  same  things  always  did 
tickle  us  both, — me  'n  Martha." 

Ben's  accent  had  been  inclined  to  sag 
a  bit  on  the  final  "a"  in  his  wife's  name, 
though  it  never  came  to  anything  worse 
than  a  hint  of  backsliding.  For  Martha, 
whose  sense  of  propriety  was  highly  de- 
veloped, was  the  last  woman  to  suffer  the 
indignity  of  being  called  "Marthy."  In 
all  the  larger  concerns  of  life  she  had  dutifully 
and  joyfully  looked  up  to  her  husband,  who, 
truth  to  tell,  was  her  ^beau-ideal  of  manly 
virtue  and  wisdom, — and  surely  no  one  was 
better  qualified  to  judge  of  Ben  than  she 
who  had  wintered  and  summered  him  for 
"nigh  upon  fifty  year."  But  in  what  she 
regarded  as  her  own  province,  namely,  in 
such  non-essentials  as  speech  and  deport- 
ment, dress  and  household  economics,  her 
word  was  law. 

"There  never  was  a  man  so  hen-pecked," 
Ben  would  aver,  with  the  perennial  relish 
which  attaches  to  a  joke  that  has  been 


380  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

many  years  a-ripening.  Whereupon  Martha 
would  make  pretence  of  direst  dudgeon,  sure 
to  set  his  small  eyes  twinkling, — those  blue 
eyes  that  looked  for  all  the  world  like  own 
brothers  to  her  turquoise  set,  most  highly 
prized  of  the  famous  Hazeldean  heirlooms. 

A  homely,  humdrum  pair  these  lifelong 
lovers  had  been. 

And  now  Martha  had  passed  over  to  the 
other  side,  and  Ben  must  e'en  bide  his  time 
until  his  own  passing  should  be  accomplished, 
—that  passing  which  in  his  private  thoughts 
he  regarded  as  having  begun  on  the  day 
when  Martha  loosed  her  hold  and  fell  asleep. 
It  was  not  in  his  kindly,  tractable  dispo- 
sition to  embitter  the  allotted  interval  with 
vain  repinings,  to  pick  a  quarrel  with  that 
good  friend  of  his,  the  order  of  nature,  to 
which  he  owed  such  countless  blessings. 
Martha  had  simply  got  tired  and  gone  early 
to  bed,  and  presently  he  should  slip  off 
his  boots  and  follow  after,  very  softly,  so 
as  not  to  wake  her.  And  then,  in  a  little 
while,  it  would  be  morning. 

Meantime,  here  were  all  the  children  up 
and  about.  How  tireless  the  young  folks 
seemed ! 

The  winter  which  followed  upon  Martha's 


The  Passing  of  Ben.  381 

death  was  a  grim  season;  yet  in  the  very 
inclemency  of  the  weather,  which  was  chill 
and  surly  rather  than  boisterous,  Ben  found 
his  own  consolation.  For  Martha  was  safe 
from  its  evil  consequences, — Martha,  for 
whom  such  weather  as  that  had  spelled 
neuralgia. 

"She  used  to  be  liable  to  headaches,"  he 
would  say.  "Real  bad  ones.  Ain't  it  good 
to  think  she  11  never  hev  any  more?*1 

And  when  the  fire  crackled  on  the  hearth, 
and  Mattie's  youngest  (whom  his  mother 
would  bring  in,  as  one  less  fortunately  en- 
dowed might  have  proffered  a  bunch  of 
roses  or  a  hot-house  peach)  crowed  with 
delight  at  the  gleaminjg  andirons  Martha 
had  taken  such  pride  in,  the  grandfather 
would  shake  his  head,  in  pity  rather  than 
in  sadness,  as  he  mused,  "Poor  little  chap! 
He  can't  remember  his  granny!" 

From  the  first,  Ben  would  not  hear  to 
making  his  home  with  any  of  his  married 
children;  and  Martha's  children,  as  was  to 
have  been  expected,  had  one  and  all  proved 
to  be  of  "the  marrying  kind."  They  might 
come  to  him  when  so  minded;  the  old  house 
could  stretch  itself  a  bit  for  the  grand- 
children,— and  for  the  great-grandchildren, 


382  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

too,  since  these  latter  appeared  to  be  taking 
time  by  the  forelock.  But  as  for  abandoning 
his  own  fireside,  that  was  out  of  the  question. 
Besides,  as  he  took  a  sly  pleasure  in  stating, 
" Martha  'nf  I  wouldn't  uv  liked  it. 
'T  would  uv  been  a  real  trial  to  us  to  hev 
an  outsider  settin'  round,  lookin'  on  at  all 
our  little  tiffs,  'n'  pretendin'  they  was  n't 
noticin'." 

"But  you  and  mother  never  had  any 
tiffs,"  young  Ben  (aged  forty-seven)  would 
protest. 

"Now,  Ben,  don't  you  be  runnin'  away 
with  the  idea  that  your  mother  had  n't  any 
spent,  jest  cause  she  'd  learned  to  put 
up  with  my  aggravatin'  ways." 

"Of  course  she  had  spirit,"  Ben  admitted, 
with  a  grin.  "I  guess  we  youngsters  found 
.that  out!  But  I  don't  know 's  I  ever  saw 
her  fly  out  at  you. " 

At  that,  a  broad  smile  would  overspread 
the  old  man's  face,  and  he  would  remark, 
"P'raps  you  wa' n't  so  very  observin'  in 
those  days,  Ben.  'T  was  along  in  the 
middle  forties. " 

At  which  Ben  junior  would  feel  extremely 
young  and  inexperienced,  and  fall  to  wonder- 
ing how  much  an  infant  in  long-clothes 


The  Passing  of  Ben.  383 

really  did  take  in  of  its  parents'  moods  and 
tenses. 

Not  that  he  and  Alicia  were  addicted  to 
what  is  popularly  known  as  "words." 
Indeed  it  would  have  taken  a  more  "aggra- 
vatin'  "  husband  than  old  Ben  himself  to 
fall  out  with  her.  As  Old  Lady  Pratt  used 
to  say, — for,  thanks  to  the  accident  of 
longevity,  that  shrewd  observer  of  her  kind 
had  been  privileged  to  see  her  grandson 
introduce  this  refreshing  variant  into  the 
family  circle, — "Alicia  can't  hold  her  mind 
still  long  enough  to  take  offence." 

And  since  Ben  senior  was  possessed  of  a 
quizzical  vein  which  Alicia  rarely  failed  to 
titillate,  it  was  to  his  eldest  son's  house  that 
he  most  frequently  found  his  way, — especially 
of  a  Sunday  afternoon,  when  the  young 
folks  were  to  the  fore.  There  were  six  of 
these,  and  the  smallest  was  named  for 
Martha. 

She  was  a  sprightly  little  five-year-old, 
who  had  come  along  so  far  behind  the  others, 
— twins,  the  last  invoice  had  been,  and  boys 
into  the  bargain, — that  she  was  regarded 
as  a  sort  of  afterthought  in  the  family,  not 
to  be  taken  too  seriously.  A  canny  little 
afterthought  it  was,  that  fully  understood 


384  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

the  advantages  of  its  position,  and  in  no 
instance  more  fully  than  in  the  easy  subju- 
gation of  "Gamps," — its  own  particular 
appellation  for  this  most  biddable  of 
"  grown-ups. " 

That  little  Martha,  any  little  Martha, 
should  be  a  prime  favorite  with  old  Ben  was 
a  foregone  conclusion,  but  it  is  pleasant  also 
to  record  that  the  partiality  was  in  a  high 
degree  reciprocal.  The  moment  the  old 
gentleman's  step  was  heard  in  the  passage- 
way, she  would  come  capering  and  chirping 
about  him,  and  no  sooner  was  he  established 
in  the  big  leathern  armchair  (declared  to 
"fit  like  a  glove"),  than  the  little  monkey 
was  climbing  over  his  rotund  person,  con- 
fidently searching  his  pockets  for  lemon- 
drops  or  peppermint  lozenges,  or  paying 
flattering  attention  to  those  side-whiskers 
which  Martha  had  never  let  him  change 
the  cut  of  since  their  wedding-day. 

And  old  Ben,  fondly  tracing  a  resemblance 
to  her  granny  in  the  vivacious  little  pick- 
pocket, would  wonder  what  on  earth  was 
to  be  done  to  get  those  pretty  eyes  set 
straight.  They  were  just  the  color  of 
Martha's,  and  the  twinkle  was  there  that 
had  ever  answered  to  his  own.  But  alas, 


The  Passing  of  Ben.  385 

the  pretty  eyes  were  crossed,  so  that  the 
twinkle  that  was  meant  for  him  would  go 
astray,  and  alight  on  some  irrelevant  object. 
And  old  Ben  fretted, — fretted  more  about 
those  vagrant  twinkles  than  about  his  own 
bereavement.  Naturally,  too, — for  was  he 
not  perfectly  sure  of  seeing  Martha  again 
in  a  few  years  at  the  most?  while  he  was 
growing  daily  more  apprehensive  lest  he 
should  not  have  a  good  report  to  give  her 
of  her  little  namesake's  eyes,  the  early 
righting  of  which  she  had  had  much  at  heart. 

At  last  Ben  screwed  up  his  courage  to  do 
what  he  had  been  ever  chary  of  doing, — 
namely,  to  interfere,  by  word  or  hint,  in 
other  folks'  affairs. 

"Don't  you  think,  Alicia,"  he  asked  one 
day,  in  a  studiously  conversational  tone, 
"that  it  's  about  time  little  Martha's  eyes 
were  attended  to?" 

He  addressed  this  quite  incendiary  remark 
to  Alicia,  rather  than  to  Ben,  because  the 
mother  seemed  entitled  to  first  considera- 
tion in  such  a  matter.  And  Ben  junior,  pull- 
ing comfortably  at  his  pipe,  was  only  too 
thankful  to  be  left  out  of  a  discussion,  the 
fate  of  which,  at  Alicia's  hands,  was  easy 
to  predict. 
25 


386  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

"Little  Martha's  eyes?"  the  latter  echoed 
pleasantly.  "Oh,  I  don't  know.  They  're 
so  cunning !  They  always  remind  me  of  that 
joke  about  the  little  cross-eyed  bear;  a  pun, 
you  know,  on  cross — I  'd — bear.  I — apos- 
trophe— d." 

"Yes,  yes.  But  about  little  Martha's 
eyes."  And  this  time  a  touch  of  special 
pleading  was  not  to  be  suppressed.  ' '  They  'd 
ought  to  be  attended  to,  you  know. " 

"Oh,  I  never  fuss  about  them;  you  ask 
Ben  if  I  do.  I  just  dress  her  up  pretty,  and 
curl  her  hair,  and — I  wonder  now,  if  I 
ought  to  have  it  cut.  Some  say  it  grows 
better  if  you  keep  it  short  while  they  're 
young.  So  I  let  Flossie's  grow  out,  and  I 
kept  Lyssie's  short,  and  I  don't  see  but 
they  've  acted  about  the  same.  If  only 
Flossie's- 

Thus  Alicia  rippled  happily  on,  while  two 
pipes  dispensed  fragrance  in  the  room,  and 
two  pairs  of  blue  eyes,  with  exactly  the 
same  indulgent  smile  in  each,  followed  the 
curling  smoke-rings.  Ben  senior,  glancing 
across  at  Ben  junior,  could  see  no  promise 
of  effective  support  in  that  quarter,  as  indeed 
why  should  he?  A  man  can't  be  expected 
to  take  sides  against  his  wife,  especially  where 


The  Passing  of  Ben.  387 

the  children  are  concerned.  A  pretty  how- 
d'ye-do  there  would  have  been  if  he  had 
undertaken  to  poach  on  Martha's  preserves! 
Only, — Martha  was  Martha,  and  always 
knew  what  was  best  for  the  children.  And 
old  Ben's  thoughts  drifted  away  to  the  safe 
haven  of  Martha's  perfections  where,  for  the 
time  being,  her  little  namesake's  one  defect 
was  forgotten. 

Not  for  long,  however,  for  the  old  man 
was  never  many  days  without  a  sight  of 
those  twinkling  eyes  that  could  n't  twinkle 
straight.  He  got  into  the  way  of  purloining 
the  child,  sometimes  for  a  day  or  two  at  a 
time, — an  act  of  depredation  readily  con- 
nived at  by  the  vested  authorities. 

"I  suppose  it  helps  him  to  forget,"  was 
Alicia's  cheerful  comment. 

They  were  standing  at  the  window,  she 
and  Ben,  watching  the  first  fluttering  flakes 
of  snow,  that  would  soon  have  wrapped  the 
gaunt  earth  in  a  sheltering  coverlid. 

" Helps  him  remember,  /  guess,"  Ben 
amended. 

"As  if  he  needed  anything  to  help  him 
remember!  I  'm  surprised  at  you,  Ben. 
Why,  it 's  only  two  months  since  your 
mother  died,  and  he  so  fond  of  her!  And 


388  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

I  'm  sure  /  can  remember,  perfectly,  that 
Swedish  cook  we  had,  the  year  Walter  was 
born.  I  can  even  remember  the  scar  she 
had  under  her  left  eye.  I  used  to  wonder 
whether  she  had  been  dropped  into  a  fiord 
when  she  was  a  baby;  nurses  are  so  careless 
with  children.  Only,  come  to  think  of  it, 
I  don't  suppose  she  had  any  nurse.  Poor 
folks  don't.  And  you  will  allow  that  your 
father  and  Sarah  take  better  care  of  little 
Martha  than  any  nurse  ever  did.  So  I 
don't  see  why  he  should  n't  have  her  come 
to  stay  with  him  just  as  often  as  he  likes." 

"Nor  I,"  was  the  peaceable  rejoinder. 
And  as  Ben  stooped  and  kissed  his  wife, 
just  by  way  of  sealing  the  compact,  he 
thought  to  himself  that  her  cheek  was  as 
soft  and  sweet  as  ever  it  was.  And  when 
she  brushed  the  kiss  off,  he  remembered  that 
that  was  exactly  what  she  did  the  first  time 
it  happened,  unconsciously  inviting  a  repe- 
tition of  the  little  ceremony.  It  was  all  very 
much  to-day  as  it  was  then,  only  that  some- 
how the  repetition  got  omitted.  For,  really, 
one  is  n't  quite  so  young  and  foolish  as  one 
used  to  be. 

And  after  all,  the  point  was  gained, — the 
point  which  nobody  had  thought  of  dis- 


The  Passing  of  Ben.  389 

puting, — that  the  grandfather  should  have 
just  as  much  of  little  Martha  as  was  requisite 
either  for  remembering  or  forgetting. 

And  so,  as  the  season  drew  in,  and  the 
snow  piled  itself  high  in  the  front  yards 
of  Bliss  Street,  the  old  man  might  often 
be  seen  passing  up  his  own  board-walk, 
between  shining  walls  of  winter's  masonry — 
and  Tim's — a  chubby  little  figure  trotting 
by  his  side,  a  gay  little  voice  out-chattering 
the  English  sparrows,  only  recently  come 
to  town. 

"What  makes  the  snow  stand  up?"  the 
little  voice  piped  one  day.  "It  lies  down, 
over  to  our  house. " 

"Get 's  kind  o'  tired  over  there,  I  s'pose, 
with  so  many  boysxand  girls  racketing 
'round." 

"Why  don't  Gamps  have  so  many  boys 
and  girls  yacketing  'round?" 

"Used  to  hev.  But  they  all  stood  up  and 
walked  away." 

"I  know.  My  daddy  was  Gamps's  little 
boy.  What  made  my  daddy  walked  away  ?  " 

"Well,  I  guess  he  wanted  to  go  'n'  keep 
house  with  little  Martha's  mother." 

"Like  Sarah  keeps  house  for  Gamps!" 
This  with  a  sudden  hop  of  blithe  intelligence. 


39O  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

"No,  little  Martha,  no!  Like  Gammy 
kept  house  for  Gamps." 

The  small  hops  ceased,  and  the  childish 
gait  became  staid  and  thoughtful. 

"What  made  Gammy  walked  away?" 

They  had  come  to  the  piazza  steps.  Old 
Sarah  would  open  the  door  for  them;  she 
was  sure  to  be  on  the  lookout,  good  soul! 
Yet,  somehow,  Ben  was  n't  in  such  a  hurry 
to  see  the  door  open  as  he  used  to  be,  and 
his  foot  lagged  a  bit. 

"What  made  Gammy  walked  away?" 
And  the  scarlet  mitten,  imprisoned  in  a 
big  hand,  grew  distinctly  restive. 

"Well,"  he  answered,  slowly,  as  they 
started  to  mount  the  steps.  "We  got 
thinkin'  't  was  about  time  we  took  a  little 
journey,  Gammy  an*  me.  And  seein'  's 
Gammy  was  spryer  'n  Gamps,  she  jest 
went  on  ahead  to  make  things  comfy." 

"Nice  Gammy!"  quoth  little  Martha, 
approvingly.  Upon  which  the  scarlet  mit- 
ten found  itself  so  tightly  squeezed,  that 
its  owner  shot  a  quick  glance  upward,  sur- 
prising a  look  in  the  old  man's  face  that 
even  a  child  could  understand.  Wherefore, 
from  that  time  on,  "nice  Gammy"  it  was, 
in  little  Martha's  vocabulary. 


The  Passing  of  Ben.  391 

"Well,  Sarah, "  Gamps  would  say,  as  the 
front  door  opened.  "Here  's  little  Martha, 
come  to  stay  the  night.  S'pose  we  Ve  got 
a  cubby-hole  we  could  stick  her  into?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  Sarah  would  reply,  with 
dignity.  "The  spare  room's  aired,  and 
het,  accordin'  to  orders."  For  Sarah  was 
a  servant  of  the  old  school,  and  knew  her 
place, — besides  seeing  to  it  that  other  folks 
kept  theirs. 

And  Ben  would  think  how,  bye  and  bye, 
when  Sarah  had  got  the  little  thing  tucked 
away  in  the  huge  canopy-bed  with  the 
flowered  calico  flounce,  he  would  go  up  and 
bid  her  good-night.  And  somehow  it  did  n't 
seem  quite  so  long — the  time  to  come  before 
that  grand  good-moriimg  that  was  to  be 
the  signal  for  starting  life  all  over  again. 

And  as  Sarah  was  disappearing  down  the 
passageway, — for  it  was  the  grandfather 
himself  who  unbuttoned  the  little  coat  and 
pulled  off  the  shiny  rubber-boots, — he  would 
like  as  not  call  after  her:  "How  about  a 
taste  of  that  quince  preserve,  Sarah?" 
Adding,  as  little  Martha's  eyes  danced 
sideways,  "Yes,  the  nice,  sticky  kind,  that 
Gammy  put  up." 

And  presently,  when  they  sat  at  table, 


392  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

the  gentle  old  man  and  his  lively  little  guest, 
he  would  say,  gravely,  as  he  helped  her  to 
another  bit  of  quince,  "I  don't  know 
what  we  're  goin'  to  do  when  these  pre- 
serves Gammy  made  give  out." 

Then  old  Sarah,  who  understood  him  as 
nobody  else  did,  would  emerge  from  her 
retreat  in  the  pantry  to  observe:  "I  reckon 
there  's  plenty  of  it  left  to  last  out  our  time." 

Whereupon  old  Ben  would  cheer  right 
up, — not  because  of  the  abundance  of 
Martha's  quince  preserve,  but  because  of 
the  limit  implied  in  the  cunningly  chosen 
phrase,  "our  time." 

Yes,  old  Sarah  understood  him  better 
than  any  one;  for  had  she  not  served  him 
and  Martha  "hand  and  foot,"  since  Hazel- 
dean  was  a  baby?  And  now  Master  Hazel- 
dean's  eldest  was  at  the  Institute,  educating 
for  a  mechanical  genius, — or  so  Sarah  under- 
stood. 

"The  old  gentleman  keeps  up  very  hand- 
some," she  would  say  to  Hazeldean's  wife, 
her  special  confidante  since  the  defection 
of  the  mistress.  "But  I  can  see  him 
hankerin'." 

And  quick  tears  would  spring  to  Hester's 
eyes,  usually  so  steady  and  so  unclouded. 


The  Passing  of  Ben.  393 

For  she  had  once  nursed  her  own  husband 
through  a  critical  illness,  and  she  knew 
something  of  the  horrible  hurt  that  she  had 
but  narrowly  escaped. 

And  yet,  although  she  longed  to  comfort 
the  lonely  old  man,  she  was  quite  aware  that 
he  craved  no  sympathy  that  she  could  give. 
He  would  rather  chuckle  over  Alicia's  in- 
spired nonsense,  or  applaud  Eddie's  wife,  as 
she  taught  her  lord  the  most  elementary 
p's  and  q's,  than  avail  himself  of  the  store 
of  tenderness  and  good  sense  that  made  of 
Hester  such  a  tower  of  strength  in  her  own 
little  world. 

"Yes,  Martha,"  he  used  to  admit,  in 
the  happy  days  when  Martha  was  by,  to 
teach  him  his  p's  arid  q's,  "Hester's  a 
good  girl,  there  never  was  a  better.  But 
she  don't  hit  the  funny-bone." 

"Now,  Ben,"  Martha  would  protest. 
"She's  got  more  fun  in  her  little  ringer 
than  Alicia  and  Fanny  have  in  all  their 
anatomy." 

"Like's  not,  like 's  not.  But  it's  the 
anatomy  that  tickles!  I  tell  you,  Martha, 
—well,  Marthar  then,  if  you  will  put  on  airs, 
—I  never  'd  hev  thought  of  fallin'  in  love 
with  you,  if  you  hed  n't  hed  your  comical 


394  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

side.  Now  don't  go  flarin'  out  about  it 
— unless  you  're  a  mind  to!" 

"Flare  out!"  Martha  would  retort,  with 
unutterable  scorn.  "I  'd  as  soon  flare  out 
at  a  feather-bolster!" 

Whereupon,  Ben  would  shake  his  sides,  and 
resolve  to  be  "aggravatin'  "  some  more. 

But  all  this  was  long,  long  ago,  and  now, 
Martha  having  given  over  being  comical 
(just  for  a  short  space,  let  us  hope),  he  had 
to  make  the  best  of  little  Martha,  who  did  n't 
care  a  button  how  her  name  was  pronounced, 
and  whose  bright  eyes  were  so  needlessly 
"comical,"  that  they  set  all  his  theories 
at  naught.  And  he,  whose  aim  in  life  it 
had  become  to  keep  everything  up  to 
Martha's  standard,  must  needs  suffer  a 
blemish  in  the  child  that  bore  Martha's 
name. 

As  long,  however,  as  he  seemed  to  be  the 
only  one  to  be  put  out,  he  tried  to  possess 
his  soul  in  patience.  He  fretted,  to  be 
sure,  though  strictly  in  private,  over  Alicia's 
little  cross-eyed  bear,  but  it  growled  so 
sweetly,  and  hugged  so  satisfactorily,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  engaging  trick  it  had  recently 
adopted  of  punctuating  his  encomiums 
upon  Martha  with  "nice  Gammy,"  that 


The  Passing  of  Ben.  395 

he  had  little  real  difficulty  in  making  the 
best  of  it. 

Then,  of  a  sudden,  all  was  changed.  For, 
in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  in  the  twinkling, 
alas,  of  little  Martha's  eye,  the  old  man 
discovered  that  he  was  no  longer  the  only 
one  to  be  put  out  about  it. 

The  catastrophe  was  indirectly  due  to  one 
of  Alicia's  inspirations.  The  child  had  been 
for  a  year  past  at  a  private  kindergarten, 
happily  engaged  in  making  mud-pies  (only 
that  they  called  it  clay),  singing  nursery 
rhymes  a  trifle  off  the  key,  and  inadvertently 
imbibing  a  few  rudiments  of  knowledge, 
when  one  day  her  mother  chanced  to  hear 
it  asserted  that  the  kindergarten  failed  to 
stimulate  the  initiative.  Precisely  what 
the  phrase  signified,  Alicia  would  have  been 
at  a  loss  to  say.  Since,  however,  there 
appeared  to  be  a  desideratum  not  provided 
for  in  the  mud-pie  curriculum,  and  since 
she  was  naturally  desirous  that  her  child 
should  enjoy  every  possible  advantage,  it 
came  about  that  the  beginning  of  the  Easter 
term  saw  little  Martha  summarily  advanced 
from  kindergarten  to  primary  school. 

Now  the  schoolhouse  stood  just  around 
the  corner  from  Bliss  Street,  and  Ben,  who 


396  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

was  at  home  a  good  deal,  now  that  he  was 
leaving  the  business  more  and  more  in  the 
capable  hands  of  Ben  junior,  found  himself 
anticipating  many  an  agreeable  windfall 
as  a  result  of  the  projected  change.  Ac- 
cordingly, on  a  certain  Monday  in  April, 
when  he  had  been  out  in  the  garden  super- 
intending the  spading  of  Martha's  currant 
bushes,  he  did  not  wait  for  Tim  to  knock 
off  work  at  the  stroke  of  twelve  before 
turning  away  and  sauntering  round  to  the 
front  of  the  house,  where  he  stood  waiting 
to  see  the  children  go  by.  For  this  was 
little  Martha's  first  day  at  the  primary 
school. 

Ben's  sight  and  hearing  were  remarkably 
good,  and  scarcely  had  the  shrill  babble  of 
young  voices  reached  his  ear,  than  he  espied 
a  solitary  little  figure,  vanguard  of  the 
troop,  running  full- tilt  around  the  corner. 
Smart  little  thing,  sure  to  be  the  first,  coming 
to  tell  Gamps  all  about  it.  He  made  quick 
time  down  the  path,  and  was  at  the  gate 
before  her. 

"Well,  well,  little  Martha!  Got  here 
first,  did  n't  ye?  Gave  'em  all  the  slip, 
like  a  little — Why,  bless  my  soul,  what 's 
the  matter?" 


The  Passing  of  Ben.  397 

For  now  that  she  was  close  upon  him, 
he  could  see  that  the  round  cheeks  were 
flushed  and  tear-stained, — scored  with  dread- 
ful little  gullies,  that  had  scarce  had  time 
to  dry. 

As  he  caught* her  up  in  his  arms,  "He 
said  I  was  crossed-eyed, "  the  child  wailed. 
"He  said  little  Marfa  was  crossed-eyed! 
And  he  sticked  his  finger  out!"  With  which 
heart-rending  jeremiad,  she  hid  her  face 
in  Gamps's  neck,  and  burst  into  tears, — 
he  could  feel  them  there,  wet  and  warm 
under  his  collar,  and  ah,  how  he  could  feel 
the  pitiful  sobs  shake  the  little  form,  held 
close  against  his  own. 

"There,  there,"  he  Coaxed,  while  a  veri- 
table lump  gathered  in  his  throat,  and  the  old 
eyes  grew  moist.  "Little  Martha  mustn't 
cry.  She  must  n't  cry !  It  makes  Gamps 
feel  bad!"  And  so  moving  was  the  appeal 
that,  with  a  mighty  effort,  the  sobs  were 
checked,  while  a  small  hand  stole  up  to 
Gamps's  cheek,  lest  perchance  a  really- 
truly  tear  might  have  got  itself  caught  in 
the  whiskers. 

But  the  kind  old  face  was  very  stern,  and 
a  hot  anger  mingled  with  the  pain  of  it  all, 
— anger  against  naughty  boys  in  general, 


398  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

and  dilatory  grown-ups  in  particular, — as 
he  set  the  child  on  her  feet,  and  led  her  around 
to  the  rear  door,  so  as  not  to  have  to  bother 
with  the  latch-key. 

Arrived  in  the  familiar  sitting-room,  where 
the  knobs  on  Martha's  work-table  beamed 
at  him  from  out  their  accustomed  corner, 
and  Martha's  "rocker"  stood  ready  to  set 
itself  going  at  the  slightest  provocation 
(he  would  often  brush  against  it  on  purpose) , 
he  sat  down  and,  lifting  the  child  to  his 
knees,  essayed  to  comfort  her. 

"There,  now,  that's  better,  ain't  it?" 
he  pleaded  earnestly.  "As  if  we  cared 
tuppence  about  bad  little  boys,  you  'n'  me! 
And  we'll  send  'n'  tell  mother  that  little 
Martha  's  goin'  to  stay  and  get  her  dinner 
with  Gamps.  Should  n't  wonder  if  Sarah 
would  let  us  hev  some  o'  that  squash  pie 
she  made  yesterday,  'n'  that  Gamps  could  n't 
eat  up  all  by  himself,  'cause  it  was  so  big, 
— unless  the  mice  hev  got  it,"  he  added, 
craftily. 

And  under  these  friendly  blandishments, 
little  Martha  soon  plucked  up  her  spirits, 
and  was  all  animation  again,  exactly  as 
Gammy  used  to  be  when  the  sun  came  out 
after  a  storm.  And  " quicker  'n  a  wink," 


The  Passing  of  Ben.  399 

she  had  jumped  down  and  run  trotting  off 
to  Sarah,  ostensibly  to  get  her  face  washed, 
but  really  to  make  sure  that  the  mice  had  n't 
"etted  up"  that  squash  pie  over  night, — 
mice  being  notoriously  greedy. 

Yet,  an  hour  -or  so  later,  when  her  grand- 
father followed  her  into  the  hall,  where  she 
had  bustled  on  ahead  to  put  her  things  on, 
he  found  her  down  on  the  floor,  looking  at 
herself  in  the  looking-glass  under  the  pier- 
table, — that  looking-glass  that  Martha  used 
to  depend  upon  to  tell  her  whether  her 
skirt  hung  right.  For  Martha  was  very 
particular  about  her  appearance,  and  never 
could  bear  to  have  anything  in  the  slightest 
degree  "out  of  kilter."  And  here  was  her 
little  namesake,  peering  into  that  same 
mirror,  with  pretty  eyes  most  wofully  out 
of  kilter. 

"Hello!"  the  old  man  cried,  determined 
to  think  no  ill  of  the  coincidence.  "Playin' 
hide'n'  seek?" 

But  a  funny  little  voice,  quite  unlike 
the  usual  gay  chirp,  inquired,  "Is  little 
Marfa's  eyes  cross-eyed?  Is  they?" 

"Well,  s'posin'  they  was?"  he  answered, 
gallantly,  as  he  picked  the  child  up  and  led 
her  back  into  the  sitting-room.  "What  do 


400  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

we  care?  I  guess  they  're  pretty  enough 
for  anybody,  'n'  I  guess  they  see  sharper  'n 
most  folks's. " 

"But  he  sticked  his  finger  out!" 

"Guess  he  was  jealous!"  By  this  time 
he  was  seated,  and  had  her  on  his  knee 
again.  "Yes,  that  was  it.  He  was  jealous. 
I  bet  he  was.  Listen,  little  Martha;  what 
kind  of  eyes  did  he  hev?" 

"Blue,— just  like  Gamps's." 

"There  now,  what  did  I  tell  ye!  That 's 
jest  what 's  the  matter.  Why,  little  Martha's 
eyes  are  black,  like  Gammy's,  'n'  they  was 
so  pretty  that  if  it  had  been  anybody  but 
Gammy,  Gamps  would  uv  been  jealous  too. 
Nobody  wants  blue  eyes,  if  they  hed  their 
choice!"  This,  in  a  tone  of  disparagement 
calculated  to  make  a  blue  eye  blush. 

And  again  little  Martha  took  heart  of 
grace,  which  set  her  small  tongue  wagging, 
and  her  small  feet  pattering,  and  sent  her 
presently  back  to  school,  armor-proof  against 
a  regiment  of  "sticked  out"  fingers. 

But  old  Ben  found  scant  comfort  in  his  own 
transparent  sophistries,  and  scant  toleration 
for  a  state  of  things  that  Martha,  his  Martha, 
would  have  made  short  work  of.  And  again 
he  took  his  courage  in  two  hands. 


The  Passing  of  Ben.  401 

"Yes,  I  guess  you  're  right,"  young  Ben 
admitted,  with  the  cautious  rectitude  which 
made  him  the  admirable  man  he  was.  "I 
guess  you  're  right.  We  shall  have  to  see 
if  we  can't  bring  Alicia  round  to  it." 

They  were  w'alking  home  from  church, 
father  and  son,  Alicia  having  stayed  behind 
to  teach  her  class  in  Sunday  School.  And 
for  once  Ben  senior  was  not  tempted  to 
speculate  as  to  the  modifications  a  Bible 
story  might  be  expected  to  undergo  in 
its  passage  through  the  curious  refracting 
medium  of  her  brain. 

"I  dunno,  Ben,"  he  demurred.  "I  'm 
afraid  I  ain't  very  sanguine  about  this 
bringin'  Alicia  rounc^  Don't  you  think 
mebbe  you  'd  do  better  to — well,  to  assert 
your  authority  ? ' ' 

"Same  's  you  used  to?"  young  Ben  was 
mean  enough  to  suggest.  But  then,  when 
a  man  is  put  to  it  he  can't  always  choose 
his  weapons. 

Old  Ben  stiffened. 

"I  don't  see  the  connection,"  he  said; 
and  he  spoke  so  sharply  that  the  son  knew 
he  had  gone  too  far. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Dad,"  he  cried, 
quickly.  "It 's  not  the  same  thing, — I  know 
26 


4O2  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

that,  well  enough.     But,  somehow,  I  don't 
like  to  be  the  one  to  hurt  Alicia's  feelings." 

"No,  of  course  not,"  his  father  assented, 
more  than  mollified  by  the  implied  tribute  to 
Martha.  "A  man  don't. " 

"She  'd  mind  a  thing  like  that  from  me 
more  than  from  anybody,"  young  Ben 
explained.  Adding,  rather  shamefacedly,— 
for  he  was  Yankee  to  the  core  of  him  and 
intensely  shy  of  sentiment, — "I  suppose 
she 's  really  more  fond  of  me  than  you 
might  think  for." 

"I  know  she's  fond  of  you,"  old  Ben 
testified,  warmly.  "And  she  's  a  dear  little 
woman,  too.  Do  you  know,  Ben,"  tucking 
his  hand  confidingly  under  his  son's  arm, 
"your  mother  used  to  say  I  liked  Alicia 
best  of  the  three.  But — I  never  owned  to 
it  before." 

And  young  Ben,  in  his  turn  immensely 
gratified,  got  hold  of  the  kind  old  hand  and 
said,  as  they  parted  company  at  Hazeldean's 
door,  where  the  grandfather  was  expected 
to  Sunday  dinner,  "Don't  you  get  to  worry- 
ing, Dad.  We  '11  bring  her  round,  yet. " 

But  it  was  not  this  cheerful  prognostica- 
tion which  lingered  in  the  old  man's  mind 
when,  later  in  the  day,  he  was  walking 


The  Passing  of  Ben.  403 

slowly,  with  bent  head,  on  his  homeward 
way.  It  was  those  other  words:  "I 
don't  like  to  be  the  one  to  hurt  Alicia's 
feelings." 

"No,  a  man  don't,"  old  Ben  said  to 
himself.  "A  man  don't.  But  who  else 
is  there?"  And  straightway  his  heart  sank, 
at  the  ominous  presentiment  that  came 
creeping  over  him. 

But  he  soon  threw  it  off.  How  could  he 
ever  have  thought  of  such  a  thing,  arrant 
coward  that  he  was  when  it  came  to  meddling 
in  other  folks'  affairs!  You  can't  teach  an 
old  dog  new  tricks,  and  he  reckoned  that 
few  old  dogs  ever  got  to  be  his  age!  To  be 
sure,  if  Martha  had  bee^n  there,  Martha,  who 
never  failed  to  rise  to  an  emergency !  That 
would  have  been  a  different  color  of  a  horse. 
How  high-handed  she  had  been  that  time, 
back  in  '49,  when  he  was  badly  bitten  by  the 
California  gold  craze.  With  what  spirit 
she  had  brought  out  her  ultimatum!  He 
could  hear  her  yet,  as  she  declared,  "Very 
well,  Ben.  You  '11  do  as  you  're  a  mind  to. 
But  just  as  sure  as  you  send  a  single  dollar 
of  your  good  money  on  that  wild-goose 
chase,  I  '11  have  my  hair  cut  off  short,  every 
spear  of  it!  You  see  if  I  don't!" 


404  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

He  laughed  now,  at  thought  of  his 
consternation. 

"And  she  'd  hev  done  it,  too, "  he  chuckled, 
as  presently  he  stood  looking  up  at  her 
"picter,"  that  >"  picter"  he  had  persuaded 
her  to  sit  for  shortly  after  that,  just  in  case 
anything  ever  should  happen  to  those  glossy 
black  braids.  Yes,  she  would  have  done  it 
fast  enough.  And  all  to  save  his  making 
a  fool  of  himself  with  a  couple  of  thou- 
sand dollars.  While  here  was  her  own  little 
namesake,  poor  lamb !  Why,  Martha  'd 
have  cut  her  head  off,  rather  than  a  little 
child  should  suffer  such  a  wrong, — a  little 
Martha,  too,  a  little  Martha  Hazeldean 
Pratt!  Catch  her  putting  up  with  any  such 
nonsense! 

Dear,  dear,  it  did  seem  to  be  growing 
harder  every  day  to  do  without  Martha! 

Meanwhile,  spring  had  blossomed  into 
summer;  Gammy's  nasturtium  vines  were 
a  riot  of  color  that  set  little  Martha's  eyes 
dancing  every  which  way.  The  Dunbridge 
schools,  from  primary  to  high,  were  closed 
for  the  season,  and  still  there  was  no  sign 
of  Alicia's  being  "brought  round."  Only 
once  had  the  grandfather  approached  her 
on  the  subject  when,  to  his  dismay,  she  had 


The  Passing  of  Ben.  405 

burst  into  tears  and  left  the  room, — Alicia, 
who  could  n't  hold  her  mind  still  long  enough 
to  take  offence!  This  was  so  extremely 
disconcerting  that  it  was  some  days  before 
the  aggressor  could  bring  himself  to  speak 
of  the  incident  to  his  son. 

Young  Ben  was  deeply  chagrined. 

"Too  bad,"  he  said.  "Too  bad!  And 
it 's  not  a  bit  like  Alicia.  Seems  as  if  her 
nerves  were  all  unstrung  over  it.  Should  n't 
wonder  if  she  'd  heard  something  that 
frightened  her." 

"But  there  ain't  really  anything  to  be 
scared  about?"  They  were  sitting  in  Mar- 
tha's grape-arbor,  safe  from  interruption. 

"I  know  it;  I  know ^11  about  it.  I  did  n't 
tell  you  at  the  time,  because  nothing  came 
of  it,  but  I  went  so  far  as  to  have  the  child's 
eyes  examined  by  Dr.  Rumrill,  the  great 
oculist  in  the  city,  and  he  said  it  was  a  very 
small  matter,  and  might  as  well  be  done 
any  time,  now.  I  think  that 's  what  upset 
Alicia  so, — my  going  ahead  like  that,  without 
letting  her  know  beforehand." 

"And  he  says  it  would  be  a  small  matter?" 

"Yes." 

"And  it  might  as  well  be  done  any  time, 
now?" 


406  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

"Yes.  But  then,  there's  Alicia.  I'm 
really  afraid  she  'd  get  sick  over  it.  Do 
you  know  Dad,"  he  went  on,  as  he  knocked 
the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  preparatory  to 
taking  his  leave.  "I  sometimes  think  that 
if  mother  were  alive  she  'd  know  what  it 
was  best  to  do." 

Old  Ben  pulled  several  times  at  his 
pipe  before  replying.  Then,  "I've  often 
thought  that,"  he  said,  soberly. 

And  from  that  hour,  that  hour  in  the 
grape-arbor,  where  husband  and  wife  had 
so  often  taken  counsel  together,  it  seemed 
as  if  Martha  herself  had  assumed  control,  so 
plain  did  everything  grow. 

First  came  a  timely  epidemic.  A  case 
of  measles  broke  out  in  the  family,  nice, 
comfortable  measles  that  never  hurt  anybody 
yet,  and  little  Martha  was  sent  to  stay  with 
her  grandfather,  just  to  get  her  out  of  harm's 
way.  And  one  by  one,  or  just  overlapping, 
like  shingles  on  the  roof,  all  the  older  children 
came  down  with  it;  and  it  went  particularly 
hard  with  Walter,  who  was  his  mother's 
idol.  So  that  by  the  time  it  was  over, 
poor  Alicia  was  so  wan  and  thin,  what  with 
nursing  and  worrying,  that  her  husband 
declared  that  there  was  nothing  for  it  but 


The  Passing  of  Ben.  407 

to  carry  her  off  to  the  seashore  for  a  fort- 
night's change  of  air. 

And  when  she  wanted  to  take  little  Martha 
with  her,  everybody  seemed  positively  in- 
spired to  say,  no,  she  must  leave  all  her 
cares  behind  her.  And  young  Ben  said 
it  was  their  first  honeymoon  in  twenty 
years,  and  he  was  n't  going  to  go  snacks 
with  anybody.  And,  thus  diverted,  Alicia 
asked  him,  did  he  remember  how  they  were 
sitting  on  the  beach  at  Old  Point  Comfort 
on  their  real  honeymoon, — well,  then,  on 
their  first  one, — and  a  little  girl  about 
half  as  big  as  Martha  was  playing  round  in 
the  sand,  and  a  lady  asked  if  it  was  their 
little  girl,  and  they  had  been  quite  indignant, 
— just  as  if  they  looked  like  old  married 
folks!  And  Ben  said  that  would  be  exactly 
the  way  of  it,  if  they  took  little  Martha 
along;  no  matter  how  young  and  frisky 
they  might  be,  people  would  think  they  were 
old  married  folks.  And  somehow  it  got 
itself  settled  that  little  Martha  was  to  stay 
with  Gamps,  and  promise  not  to  eat  green 
pears,  while  Flossie  kept  house  for  the  big 
children.  Nobody  seemed  to  have  planned 
anything,  but  there  it  was,  all  arranged. 
And  it  must  have  been  that  somebody 


408  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

had  brought  it  about,  and  why  not  Martha? 
So  thought  old  Ben,  at  least;  for  he  was 
getting  to  be  something  of  a  mystic  in  his 
modest,  homespun  fashion. 

And  not  a  word  had  ever  passed  between 
the  two  Bens,  not  a  word,  or  the  raising 
of  an  eyebrow,  that  could  incriminate  them 
in  each  other's  consciousness.  And  old 
Ben  wondered. 

"Now,  don't  let  little  Martha  wear  upon 
you,  Dad,"  young  Ben  had  admonished, 
when  he  came  to  say  good-bye.  "And  if 
anything  goes  wrong,  you  can  count  on  me." 

"Don't  know  what  should  go  wrong," 
the  old  man  answered,  with  elaborate  un- 
concern,— for  he  was  bold  as  a  lion,  now 
that  Martha  had  taken  control.  "Unless 
she  stubs  her  toe  on  her  own  impudent 
little  nose!" 

"Yes,  yes;  I  understand!  And,  I  say, 
Dad,"  Ben  called  back,  as  he  left  the  old 
man  standing  in  the  doorway,  a  small 
figure  beside  him,  throwing  handfuls  of 
kisses  after  her  own  daddy,  "I  appreciate  f" 

Well,  of  course  he  appreciated.  Very 
proper  that  he  should.  Were  n't  they  going 
on  their  honeymoon,  he  and  Alicia?  And 
were  n't  they  lucky  not  to  have  any  of  the 


The  Passing  of  Ben.  409 

small-fry  tagging  after  them?  No,  not  a 
word  had  been  uttered  on  either  side  that 
could  incriminate  anybody. 

And  now  the  honeymooners  were  off,  and 
the  doctor  would  be  here  to-morrow,  the 
doctor  and  the  nurse,  and  it  was  time  little 
Martha  was  let  into  the  secret. 

And  again  it  seemed  as  if  Gammy  were 
in  control.  For  every  word  the  old  man 
said  went  straight  to  the  right  spot. 

Oh,  yes,  little  Marfa  would  like  of  all 
things  to  have  her  two  eyes  look  the  same 
way,  "like  other  little  girls's." 

"For  you  see,"  Gamps  explained,  mindful 
of  the  virtue  of  consistency,  "Cross-eyed 
eyes  are  all  well  enough,  but  they  ain't 
in  the  fashion  jest  nofa,  any  more  'n  poke- 
bunnits,  like  what  Gammy  used  to  look 
so  pretty  in,  ever  so  long  ago.  But  she 
would  n't  be  wearin'  'em  now,  'cause  they  're 
out  o'  fashion." 

"What  kind  of  a  bunnit  is  Gammy  wearin' 
on  the  journey  she's  goned  away  on?" 
This  was  a  very  complicated  proposition 
for  little  Martha  to  formulate. 

Ben  tried  to  imagine  something  in  the 
way  of  a  halo  for  those  glossy  braids,  which 
had  never  turned  gray,  like  common,  every- 


41  o  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

day  hair  does ;  but  somehow  he  could  n't 
fetch  it. 

"Mebbe  they  don't  wear  bunnits  up 
there,"  he  hazarded.  "It's  like  playin' 
in  a  garden  I  guess.  You  don't  want  a 
bunnit  in  a  garden." 

"An'  lots  of  flowers?" 

"Yes,  lots  of  flowers,  that  smell  sweet,  like 
the  ones  little   Martha  '11  hev  to  smell  of 
when  her  eyes  are  all  tied  up  for  a  little 
while,  just  to  git  rested  after  they  've  been — ' 
he  paused  for  a  word. 

"Made  over?"  she  chirped.  "Like  muv- 
ver's  party  dress  she  tooked  away  wiv  her?" 

"Yes,  that 's  it.  All  made  over  pretty, 
like  mother's  party  dress.  And  there  '11  be 
a  kind  lady  in  a  funny  white  cap,  like  the 
fairy  godmother  in  the  story-books,  to  help 
take  care  ,of  little  Martha.  Only  Gamps 
and  Sarah  '11  always  be  round,  to  make  sure 
that  the  fairy  godmother  don't  carry  her  off 
to  fairy -land. " 

And  so  the  old  man  wove  his  pretty  fabric 
of  fact  and  fancy,  and  when  he  perceived 
that  every  word  he  said  went  straight  to 
the  right  spot,  he  never  for  an  instant 
doubted  to  whom  the  credit  was  due. 

And   next   day,   when   Dr.    Rumrill   had 


The  Passing  of  Ben.  411 

departed,  rubbing  his  hands  with  satis- 
faction over  a  good  job  done,  and  the  little 
figure,  with  bandaged  eyes,  lay  breathing 
quietly  under  the  influence  of  a  gentle 
anodyne,  and  the  nurse  whispered,  "It 
was  the  loveliest  operation  I  ever  saw," 
old  Ben  slipped  down  into  the  kitchen 
to  tell  Sarah, — seeing  that  there  was  nobody 
else  to  tell, — and  I  think  that  if  that  worthy 
dame  had  been  one  whit  less  particular 
about  remembering  her  own  place,  and 
keeping  other  folks  in  theirs,  he  would 
positively  have  hugged  the  good  woman 
for  sheer  joy. 

"My  stars  and  gaiter  boots,"  cried  young 
Ben  a  fortnight  later^when  he  and  Alicia, 
returned  from  their  honeymoon,  found  Gamps 
and  all  six  of  the  children  assembled  on  their 
own  broad,  low-built  porch.  "What  ever 
has  happened  to  little  Martha?" 

"They 's  in  the  fashion,"  piped  a  gay 
little  voice.  "Gamps  an'  me,  we  had  'em 
made  over,  jest  like  muwer's  party  dress 
that  she  tooked  away  wiv  her!"  And  she 
came  dancing  down  off  the  porch,  and  pulling 
at  her  mother's  skirts.  For  Gamps  had 
said,  "Be  sure  you  kiss  mother  first." 


412  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

"Why,  Ben!"  cried  Alicia,  turning  white 
and  "trembly"  under  the  seaside  tan. 
"Why,  Ben!  What  is  it?" 

"Don't  ask  me"  was  the  innocent  pro- 
test. "This  is  the  first  /  've  heard  of 
it." 

Alicia  stood  stock  still,  her  hand  on  the 
child's  shoulder. 

"It  was  n't  you  that  had  it  done?" 

"No  such  luck,"  he  asserted,  stoutly. 
"Never  knew  a  word  about  it  till  this 
blessed  minute.  But,  thank  the  Lord, — 
and  Gamps, — it 's  done!" 

Alicia  looked  doubtfully  from  one  to  the 
other  of  the  little  group,  and  then  she  looked 
down  into  the  dancing  eyes  of  the  child, 
on  tiptoe  there  in  front  of  her.  The  air 
was  electric.  Every  one,  down  to  the  twins, 
felt  a  sense  of  expectancy.  Only  little 
Martha  was  quite  unconscious. 

Pulling  at  her  mother's  sleeve,  "He 
said  little  Marfa  must  kiss  muwer  first," 
she  admonished. 

At  the  word,  Alicia  caught  up  the  little 
creature  and  kissed  her  again  and  again, — 
lips,  cheek,  eyes,  but  the  eyes  again  and 
again.  Then,  as  the  child  broke  loose  and 
sprang  into  her  father's  arms,  the  mother 


The  Passing  of  Ben.  413 

moved  slowly,  waveringly,  up  the  path. 
Boys  and  girls  all  stood  back,  like  people 
in  a  play,  leaving  the  grandfather  in  a  merci- 
lessly exposed  situation .  Slowly ,  very  slowly , 
Alicia  moved  toward  him,  still  with  that 
doubtful  look  in  her  eyes. 

The  old  man  flushed  crimson,  and  his  lip 
trembled.  It  was  a  moment  to  try  the 
stoutest  heart.  But  he  stood  his  ground. 

"  Well,  Alicia,  "he  said. 

Only  for  an  instant  did  Alicia  hesitate, 
while  she  glanced  in  her  bird-like  way  from 
Ben  to  his  father,  from  his  father  to  Ben. 
Then  her  face  cleared,  and,  with  a  queer 
little  catch  in  her  voice,  "I  'm  not  sure, 
Ben,"  she  jested,  'il 'm  not  sure  but  I 
like  him  best  of  the  two!" 

That  broke  the  ice.  In  a  quick  burst 
of  feeling,  that  was  well  worth  waiting  for, 
she  flung  her  arms  about  the  old  man's 
neck,  and  clung  there,  laughing  and 
crying. 

Really,  old  Ben's  collars  had  a  rough  time 
of  it,  first  and  last. 

That  was  the  high-water  mark  in  the 
passing  of  Ben,  that  passing  which  he 
always  reckoned  as  having  begun  on  the 


414  Later  Pratt  Portraits. 

day  Martha  went  away.  A  cheerful  passing 
it  was,  cheerful  with  no  forced  effort,  no 
hard-won  philosophy.  It  was  like  the  pass- 
ing of  day,  when  the  sun  is  setting  in  a  clear, 
quiet  sky,  with  here  and  there  a  freakish 
cloudlet  to  catch  the  light.  Neighbors, 
kindred,  children's  children,  all  partook 
of  the  gentle  benediction  of  a  nature  un- 
spotted of  the  world,  yet  touched  with  a 
quaint  humanity,  whose  foibles  were  but  as 
whimsical  cloudlets,  shifting,  gleaming,  shim- 
mering to  the  last. 

And  since  children  delight  in  pretty 
whimsies,  where  malice  has  no  part,  and 
since  they  feel  safe  and  happy  when  wrapped 
about  with  love,  what  wonder  that  the  old 
man's  chief  companion  in  those  latter  days 
was  a  little  child, — a  child  that  bore  Martha's 
name,  and  in  whose  young  eyes,  clear  and 
straight  now  as  any  in  the  land,  lurked  a 
dancing  light  which  they  seemed  to  have 
caught  from  Martha's  own. 

And  a  little  child  she  still  was  when  that 
tranquil  passing  was  accomplished. 

Did  old  Ben  die,  like  other  folks?  No 
doubt  he  did,  for  he  was  no  saint,  to  claim 
translation.  But  that  is  something  nobody 
seems  to  remember  about.  They  only  know 


The  Passing  of  Ben.  415 

that  for  yet  a  little  while  he  walked  with 
Martha,  in  an  ever  closer  intimacy,  and 
that  now,  though  no  longer  seen  of  men,  he 
is  walking  with  her  still. 


FINIS 


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U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRAI 


800301^413 


957086 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


